

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, j 

Chap^X-^ Copyright No . 

Shelf.j..l.S,^7 ^ 

‘ 2 . 

I 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. | 





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I 

1 




HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


A TALE OF THE HUGUENOTS OF 
LANGUEDOC. 


y/BY 

GRACE RAYMOND. . 

\-VV' Trv\' 


RICHMOND, VA. : 

Presbyterian Committee of Publication, 


TWO COPIES RECEIVED, 


Library cf 

Office c f the 

DEC 1 


Register of Cofyrlghl*i 



Copyrighted 

BY 

JAS. K. HAZEN, Secretary of Publicatio7i^ 
1899. 


SECOND copy, 

^ -Sue. \ lo 3 ^ 


TO MY MOTHER. 


The world will read the printed tale 
Of olden stress and strife, 

Of love made pare in furnace-fires, 

And faith more dear than life. 

But could thy tender eyes, to-day. 

Upon the pages shine. 

The hidden tale, to them revealed. 
Would glow in every line. 

Perchance, e’en now, above the stars, — 
Beyond these smiles and tears, — 

The story others cannot read. 

Thy listening spirit hears. 

And sweeter strains, from one glad harp 
In fuller music tell 
The lesson, learned in tears below — 
“He doeth all things well.” 


Charleston, S. C., 
April, 1889. 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

By Firelight, i 

\ 

CHAPTER 11. 

Counting the Cost, ------- i6 

CHAPTER HI. 

In the Snare, 29 

CHAPTER IV. 

An Open Door, 37 

CHAPTER V. 

An Old Debt Cancelled, - 54 

CHAPTER VI. 

A Game of Skill, 69 

CHAPTER VH. 

After many Days, - - - - = - . 88 

CHAPTER VHl. 

Cathedral Steps, - 108 

CHAPTER IX. 

“Delilah,” - . - - 125 

CHAPTER X. 

“Wings as A Dove,” - - - - - - 148 

CHAPTER XI. 

Cross OR Sword ? - . _ 165 


VI 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER XII. 

The Second Home-Coming, - 182 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Under Arms, 195 

CHAPTER XIV. 

In the Crucible, - - - - - - - - 211 

CHAPTER XV. 

M. Renau’s Revenge, 237 

CHAPTER XVI. 

“ Out of the Depths,” 262 

CHAPTER XVII. 

The Communion in the Glen, ----- 286 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

A Watch in the Night, ------ 305 

CHAPTER XIX. 

In the Morning, -------- 322 

CHAPTER XX. 

“ Many Waters cannot quench Love,” - - -337 

CHAPTER XXL 

The Last Tie, - - 358 

CHAPTER XXIL 

Winkle Street, Southampton, - - - - 378 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


A TALE OF THE HUGUENOTS OF LANGUEDOC. 

CHAPTER 1. 

BY FIRELIGHT. 

AX TILL you tell me about my mother to-night, 
VV Nannette?” 

It was a childish voice, clear and sweet as the tinkle 
of a brook on the hillside, that asked the question, 
and the face, upturned in the ruddy glare of the wide 
hearth, was winsome as a flower. 

The middle-aged serving - woman, seated on the 
broad, oaken settle, glanced up sideways from her 
knitting. 

“ I cry you mercy, Mistress Eglantine ; you should 
know the story by this time as well as I.” 

Eglantine laughed. She knew what Nannette’s 
hesitation meant, and how it was sure to end. 

“ I remember every word, dear old Bonne ; but that 
is not like hearing you tell it. M. La Roche is in the 
sitting-room with my aunt, and will not go away until 
my uncle gets back from the consistory meeting, and 
Rene is doing his lessons. There is no one to talk to 
me but you, Nannette, and I would not tire if you told 
me about my mother every night.” 


2 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


m 

“You mind well there is nothing I like so much to 
tell,” answered the woman, stopping her work for a 
moment to pat the child’s cheek with a trembling 
hand. “ But I might well hesitate to burden so 
young a heart with so sad a tale, if it were not for 
my lady’s own words, — ‘You will go and stay with 
my little girl when I am gone, Nannette, and you will 
tell her the story when she is old enough to under- 
stand. Madame Chevalier will make her a better 
mother than ever I could have done, but I would 
like her to know that I loved her even when I put her 
away, — that it was because I loved her so much that I 
did it.’ She spoke but once after that. Mistress Eglan- 
tine, and then only to murmur a prayer. Ah ! there 
never was a gentler or a truer heart — nay, nor a 
braver, though it were that of the great Marshal 
Turenne himself. You mind how the shops were all 
dressed in mourning for the great captain, my young 
lady, the first time you went down to Nismes to see 
your grandfather, three years ago ? ” 

“ I recollect the visit to my grandfather very well, 
but I have forgotten the shops. Please go on, Nan- 
nette, and tell me about my mother. Do I look like 
her?” 

How often she had asked that question, and how 
often Nannette had looked into her face, and shaken 
her head, and sighed — as she did now : 

“You are no that ill to look upon, little one, as you 
have found out far too early for your good, but it is 
the beauty of your father’s house : you have not your 
mother’s face. Her eyes were blue and soft, like the 
velvet pansies that she loved, or the summer sky at 
noon ; while yours are dark, and flash like stars on a 
wintry night. And your hair is black as the raven’s 
wing, while hers was the ruddy gold the painters love.” 


BV FIRELIGHT, 


3 

“Was she beautiful ? ” queried the child wist- 
fully. 

She was seated on the settle now, with her warm 
cheek pressed against the speaker’s sleeve. 

“You would have thought so if you could have seen 
her tripping to church by her father’s side, with the 
young gallants of Nismes waiting to see her pass. 
But beauty is vain. Mistress Eglantine : I wish I could 
write that on your memory with a diamond pen. Fair 
looks did not save your mother’s eyes from tears, nor 
her heart from aching. There were more than a score 
of gentlemen ready to cross swords for a glance from 
her sunny eyes, but on none of them would she smile, 
not even on the rich young merchant whom her father 
had chosen for her husband. For her heart was set on 
Captain Bertrand, your father, the young officer whom 
she had met at Marseilles, and though your grand- 
father refused to hear of the captain’s suit, my young 
lady would think of none but her lover, night and day. 
He was of gentler blood than she, and his father had 
rich estates, and a chateau in Bearn, but he was the 
younger son, and had no income but his pay, and 
the master thought more of the fine house M. Baptiste 
could give his daughter, than of the captain’s long 
line of ancestors. It was the first time he had crossed 
my lady in all her life, and it went hard with her to 
give up her will about the thing she cared for most. 
I do not excuse what she did. Mistress Eglantine: it 
is a sore thing for a daughter to go against her father’s 
will, but the blame was not all hers, and I had no 
choice when one night she came to my bedside, all 
dressed for a journey, and told me that she was going 
to leave her father and be married to Captain Ber- 
trand, that she could never be happy with any other, 
and then with tears and kisses, and soft arms about 


4 


NOJV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


my neck, prayed me to go with her. I would have 
been false to the promise I gave her mother if I had 
let her go alone, so I dressed, and went with them, 
though not without heavy misgivings, I will own, and 
saw them married at the priest’s house — for your 
father was a Catholic — and was well on the road to 
Bearn with them the next morning before those behind 
us had found it out.” 

“ Was my grandfather very angry ? ” 

“It nearly broke his heart, little one, for he had 
loved my lady as the apple of his eye, and he would 
not believe but that Captain Bertrand had cared more 
for the dowry than for the wife he had won. He sent 
back every letter my lady wrote him, unopened, until 
her husband would let her write no more. That was 
the only shadow on their happiness at first. Thou art 
like thy father. Mistress Eglantine, with thy sunny 
temper, and thy hot way of loving. Whatever pen- 
alty my lady had afterward to pay for her wilfulness, 
she was at least not disappointed in him. Rethought 
nothing too good for her, and it was not long before, 
to please him, she gave up going to her own church, 
and went to his. From that moment my heart mis- 
gave me. Your grandfather had never been much of 
a church-goer, and he would not let our pastor in 
Nismes talk much to my 5’'oung lady about her soul, 
but he came of staunch Huguenot stock, and my dear 
mistress, your grandmother, had had the blood of 
martyrs in her veins, and would have died miserable 
if she had thought her darling would ever go to mass 
or the confessional. But my pretty mistress laughed 
at my scruples. To her, in her happiness, one religion 
was as good as another, and her husband’s people were 
greatly pleased, and after that talked no more about 
the mesalliance, but made her one of them. Ana then 


BY FIRELIGHT. 


5 


your father was summoned to Flanders, and your little 
sister was born, and a new look came into my lady’s 
eyes which said life liad ceased to be all holiday. The 
little one was scarce a month old, when one day, as 
we sat together in her chamber, she looked up at me 
suddenly, and said : 

“ ^ Nannette, what if my mother’s religion was the 
only true one, after all : have I defrauded my baby — 
have I endangered her?’ 

“ I could only kiss her hand and weep, for I was not 
as brave to tell her the truth as I should have been, 
and she never broached the matter again, but after 
that I began sometimes to miss my little New Testa- 
ment, and to guess where it had gone, and when the 
little one was old enough to lisp a prayer, I marked 
that my lady taught her, not the Ave Marias of her 
husband’s church, but the words she had learned at 
her own mother’s knee.” 

Nannette had evidently forgotten her listener; hei 
needles were flashing fiercely in the firelight, her eyes 
were gazing into the glowing coals. 

“Try as we might, the matter could not be always 
kept hid, and it came in time to the ears of Mademoi- 
selle Bertrand, the captain’s elder sister, and our little 
Mignonnette’s god-mother. She said nothing, but 
bided her time, and one day when my lady came back 
from a ride it was to find that Mademoiselle Bertrand 
had been to the chateau and taken her little niece 
away with her. And when our young madame has- 
tened to her and demanded her child, she said, coldly, 
she had acted for the little one’s best good, and dare 
not return her to a mother who had proved so unfaith- 
ful to her trust. For the first time in her life I saw my 
lady’s eyes flash fire, as she said she would write to 
her husband, and obtain a vindication of her rights. 


6 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


The letter went off that very night, by the hand of a 
trusty messenger, but alas ! instead of the swift help 
she looked for, came back the heavy tidings that her 
lord had fallen in battle, and lay wounded unto death 
in his tent, praying only to see her face once more. 
No more thought of little Mademoiselle Mignonnette 
just then. As fast as post-horses could carry her, my 
lady travelled in answer to that call — Antoine, the 
captain’s foster-father, and I, going with her, and 
taking what care we could of her by the way. But all 
in vain. M. le Capitaine had been dead twelve hours 
when we reached the camp, and our madame fell to 
the ground, as though stricken with death herself, at 
the word. 

“ For four days she lay upon her couch, neither speak- 
ing norweeping, nor breaking bread; but on the fifth, 
as I sat watching beside her, she opened her eyes and 
said quietly: will live, Nannette, to save my little 

Mignonnette. Tell Antoine to have the horses ready, 
we will start for Bearn to-morrow.’ But it was a week 
later before she was strong enough to undertake the 
journey, and then, travel with what care we might, we 
had only reached Beaucaire when you. Mistress Eglan- 
tine, were born.” 

The nurse paused for a moment to lay a caressing 
hand on the small head nestling in her arm. 

“It was the eve of the great July Fair; lodgings 
were not to be had in the town for love or money; 
we thought ourselves fortunate to secure one of the 
booths erected in the meadows along the river’s banks, 
and your mother counted it a happy circumstance, 
also, that the people in the tents nearest us were from 
the Levant, and knew no more of our language than 
was necessary for the purposes of trade. They could 
not spy into our concerns, she said. There was no 


BV FIRELIGHT. 


1 


light in her eyes when she saw you, little one, as there 
had been when I laid your sister on her breast. Alas! 
that the coming of so fair a face should bring so little 
joy. For she had come to a desperate resolve. Mis- 
tress Eglantine : you will never fathom its cost until 
you have held a babe of your own in your arms. ‘ It 
is too late to save my little Mignonnette,’ whispered 
my lady, as I watched beside her that summer night. 
‘ Even if they take pity on my distress, and give her 
back to me, I must train her in her father’s faith, or have 
her taken from me again, for good. But for this inno- 
cent little soul there is yet time, Nannette. Do you re- 
member the pretty cottage on the other side of Tar- 
ascoh, where we took shelter two days ago from the 
storm ? The saintly face of the young pastor, and 
the tender eyes of the mother as she bent over her 
little ones, have haunted me ever since. I am sure, 
for Christ’s sake, they would receive even a nameless 
babe left at their door — all the more, one that was 
given them to train in the right way. My husband’s 
people shall never know of the little one’s existence, 
and my father could not help me if he would.’ 

“ It was a sad blow to me. Mistress Eglantine, and it 
took me more than one night to see the right of it, for 
the touch of thy rose-leaf hand on my cheek had be- 
wildered my conscience, and it seemed a disgrace, too, 
to cast my lady’s babe on the world like that. But 
my lady’s will was adamant, and I saw at last I was 
endangering the life I cared for most in the world, 
and yielded — and talked Antoine round too, — no easy 
matter; but after he was once convinced that our young 
madame’s life hung on the issue, he was as true as 
steel. So at the end of the week we took our de- 
parture from Beaucaire with the pleasure-seekers ; 
but while my lady and I travelled slowly to Anduze, 


8 


HOJV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


Antoine turned back over the bridge of boats to 
Tarascon, and passing through the town, reached the 
hamlet where the pastor lived, as the summer dusk 
was falling. We had put a purse of gold with you in 
the basket, little one, and robed you in folds of finest 
wool and linen, and my lady pinned a note upon thy 
breast, saying thou wert of gentle and stainless blood, 
but giving no name, and praying pastor Chevalier 
and his wife to bring thee up in the faith which thy 
unhappy mother dared not teach thee. Thou shouldest 
think of this sometimes, Mistress Eglantine, when thy 
aunt tries to teach thee what is right, and the pastor 
sets thee the long tasks in the catechism, which thou 
dost think so dull.” 

“ I do think of it, Nannette — only the catechism is so 
hard to remember. Please go on ; tell me how Antoine 
watched through the hedge until they heard me 
cry, and came out into the porch, and how Rene 
was the first to* open the basket, and how my aunt 
took me up in her arms and kissed me, and how 
uncle Godfrey said God had given me, in place of 
the little daughter they had lost, and how they called 
me Eglantine, because the vine was in blossom on the 
porch.” 

‘‘You mind that part of the story well enough 
yourself, Mistress Eglantine : there is more than one 
can tell you that tale. I thought it was about your 
mother you wished to hear.” 

“ Indeed it is,” peeping round to print a kiss on the 
averted face. “ I will be good, and ask no more ques- 
tions if you will tell the rest.” 

But Nannette was gazing into the fire, her usually 
busy needles motionless in her hands. There was al- 
ways something awesome to Eglantine when Nan- 
nette’s hands were still. 


BY FIRELIGHT. 


9 

“ Please go on,” she whispered. “ My mother wa.s 
very ill at Anduze, was she not ? ” 

“ Nigh unto death, mademoiselle. The figs had 
fallen, and the grapes were purple on the hillsides 
when we reached Bearn, and then it was only to 
meet sorrow upon sorrow. Mademoiselle Bertrand 
had placed her little niece in a convent as soon as she 
heard of M. le Capitaine’s death, and in vain my lady 
appealed from her to the convent, and from the con- 
vent to the cure, and from the cure to the prefect. 
They either could not, or would not help her. There 
stood the king’s edict, that permitted even children of 
tender years to choose the faith in which they would 
be reared, and this Mademoiselle Bertrand claimed 
her little niece had done, and though my lady knew 
a toy might have tempted the baby lip to utter the 
ave which w^as all that would have been considered 
necessary, she had no proof, no redress. It had been 
hard enough to be simply separated from the little 
one, but to think of her behind convent-bars, fretting 
her timid heart out among strangers, neglected, per- 
haps ill-used — it was more than any mother could 
have heart to bear. For she was such a gentle child, 
our little mademoiselle, with none of thy dash and 
sparkle. Mistress Eglantine, but with loving, nestling 
ways that crept round one’s heart unaware, and an 
angel-face that was like her mother’s, and yet not like. 
It seemed to have so little in common with this world 
of ours. 

“ When at last the truth dawned on your mother she 
took to her chamber, and gave way to such comfort- 
less grief, that M. Bertrand at last became uneasy, 
and sent for the cure. He was an old man, and 
seemed really touched by my lady’s despair. He told 
her that it was because of her Huguenot leanings 


10 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


that the child had been taken from her, but that if she 
would reassure the Church as to her attachment, he 
would use his influence to have the little one restored. 
I think your mother had anticipated this, for she said 
at once she would do anything, suffer anything that 
he would dictate. She had been only feeling after the 
truth, little one, she had not found it, and it was a sore 
test. In thy case, conscience and mother-love had 
been on the same side, but now there was a strife be- 
tween the two, and the human love was the stronger. 
God is pitiful : I think He will not judge harshly 
where He had given so little, but from that hour there 
was a broken-hearted look in my lady’s eyes, which 
told me she felt she had turned her back upon the 
light, and must henceforth walk in darkness. 

“ They were heavy days that followed, sweetheart : I 
like not to dwell upon them. Our young madame was 
worn to a shadow with prayers and pilgrimages ; but 
when in the early spring she ventured to ask for an 
interview with Mademoiselle Mignonnette, Father 
Joseph confessed that the child had been removed to 
a distant convent, and that it would take time to have 
her brought back. I think my lady’s heart misgave 
her from that, but she redoubled her penances and 
fasts, until the year was gone, and the Christmas 
snows lay white upon the hills, and Father Joseph 
could no longer conceal the truth, and told her plainly 
that the bishop had decided to train the little demoi- 
selle for a nun, and her mother must resign all hopes 
of ever seeing her again. My young madame was borne 
fainting from the confessional where the fatal word 
was spoken, and many a time in the sore illness that 
followed, I hoped God was going to take her out of 
this troublous world. But He is wiser than we. Mis- 
tress Eglantine, though we would often mar His coun- 


BY FIRELIGHT. 


II 


sels if we had the power. When the winter was 
ended, and the gentians began to purple in the shel- 
tered places, my lady came forth from her chamber , 
but though she took her old place in the house, there 
was a spirit-look in her face, and a noiselessness in 
her step, which told that some link between her and 
this life was broken. She showed no anger to those 
who had so sorely wronged her, but it was only the 
suffering of the poor and sick in the hamlet that fully 
roused her. To them she was an angel of mercy — 
especially, the mothers, who knew her story, loved 
her, and many an hour would she sit in their lowly 
cottages, with their little ones on her lap, or round 
her knee. It was one day that summer, after she had 
helped a young shepherd’s wife to nurse a feeble baby 
back to life, that I found her weeping bitterly, and 
the cry on her lips was not for Mademoiselle Mignon- 
nette, but ^ My baby ! my little, lost, unnamed baby ! ’ 
A heart may count something of the cost of its gifts 
beforehand, little one, but it is not until afterward 
that we wholly tell the price. I think it was not the 
first time your mother had cried out for the child she 
had put from her, though she had never let the word 
escape her until now. And I spoke out square and 
strong : ‘ The little one is rosy and well, madame. 
Antoine saw her this spring when he was in the 
Cevennes, where pastor Chevalier and his wife are 
living now. She is the darling of the whole country- 
side, Antoine heard, and the pastor and his wife love 
her as their own flesh and blood, and have planned to 
marry her to their only son, when she is grown ; but 
you have only to speak the word, my lady ; you have 
gold to pay them for their trouble.’ But she would 
let me say no more. Mistress Eglantine. ‘ My heart 
shall break before I utter the word,’ she said ; ‘ who 


12 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


am I, Nannette, that I should take an innocent soul to 
train for God ?’ And she dried her tears at once, and 
would never reopen the subject. But that fall there 
came to the chateau a young priest, with a face like 
a Saint John. M. Fenelon was his name, and he has 
since come to be a great preacher, but then he was 
still at his studies. He was a distant kinsman of your 
father’s, and had heard of my lady’s trouble ; it was 
not many days before he had won from her the whole 
story, for he had a gentle, I indly way about him, little 
one, which made even the most timid ready to put 
their trust in him. My lady told him everything, sav- 
ing what had happened at Beaucaire, and he com- 
forted her like a young brother. He bade her think 
no more that God had forsaken her, but believe that 
He was a tender Father, who had only suffered these 
trials to come upon her that He might draw her 
nearer to Himself. He told her that it was God him- 
self, not her child, for whom her heart was truly hun- 
gering, and that He alone could satisfy her. But he 
reminded her, too, that the little one was still in the 
Good Shepherd’s keeping, though removed from hers, 
and that if she would only trust Him, He would give 
His angels charge concerning the little feet that they 
should never go astray. And he spoke of the love 
and sympathy of the Lord Jesus, and the joy of fol- 
lowing in the prints of those blessed feet, until his 
own face glowed like an angel’s, and my lady’s caught 
the reflection. Sometimes he added learned words of 
the perpetuity of the Church, and the sacredness of its 
ordinances, but to these she only listened absently, 
though she liked well enough to hear of the holy 
sisters of Port Royal, and a little book by M. Pascal, 
which he lent her, she said, read like the words of one 
who had seen God face to face. But after all, it was 


^ V FlkEUGHT. 


3 


the saintly beauty of M. Fenelon’s own life, and the 
plain tokens of his near walk with God — more than 
aught he said — that set my lady’s heart at rest. It 
would take a wiser head than mine, Mistress Eglan- 
tine, to explain how one so good and pure can remain 
in the Church of Rome, but no one could live in the 
house with M. Fenelon, and hear him talk, without 
seeing that he at least worshipped God in spirit and 
in truth, and walks with unspotted garments even 
where Satan’s seat is. There would be none of these 
harsh edicts against the Protestants if he had his way, 
and I have heard the pastor tell that when he was ap- 
pointed chief of the mission to St. Etoile, last year, 
he was bold enough to tell his majesty that he would 
go only on condition that no force should be used. 

“ Little wonder that a bruised heart like my lady’s 
surrendered itself to his guidance. ‘ If I am doing 
wrong, God will be pitiful to my weakness and igno- 
rance,’ she said one night, when I was helping her to 
undress. ‘I have not much longer to live, Nannette, 
and for those few months I can but wait quietly where 
I am. God knows my heart : He sees that it is only 
to Him I look, only in His cross I trust. Once I 
thought that I could only find God through my 
mother’s Church : now I know the way is not this 
creed, nor that, but Himself.’ 

“ ‘ Will madame then send for her youngest daughter, 
and leave the little one to be reared in the faith in 
which she herself is content to die?’ I asked. She 
gave me a strange look, sweetheart. ‘Never, Nan- 
nette,’ she answered. ‘ I am not strong nor brave like 
others, but I would be broken upon the wheel before 
I would bid my little one leave the blessed home in 
which she has found shelter, for the snares and perils 
of this.’ And then she put her arms about my neck, 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


14 

and laid her head upon my breast, as she used to do 
when she was your age, Mistress Eglantine, and had 
something to say she would not speak aloud. ‘ There 
are not many like M. Fenelon,’ she whispered ; ‘none 
should know that better than you and I, Nannette. 
If I have found the light at last, it has been through 
a weary and winding road, and more than once I have 
come near missing it altogether. Would you have me 
take the little feet from the plain path, and the happy 
daylight of the open Bible, to grope their way through 
the night that I have known ? I can hope for my little 
Mignonnette, because I gave her the best I had when 
she was taken from me, but I could not pray for the 
other, if I put the stumbling-block in her way.’ And 
though she was afterward induced to write to M. 
Chevalier, and had occasionally secret letters from him 
and his wife in return, she held firm to her purpose 
not to look upon thy face, nor let thy father’s people 
suspect thy existence. Bear this in mind, my little 
one, if thou art ever tempted to part with the pearl 
purchased for thee with such bitter pain. And who 
can tell through what straits thou mayest have to keep 
it, by the time thou art a woman grown — if the edicts 
grow much harsher. Even now the pastor walks be- 
neath the edge of an avalanche, and the least incau- 
tious step or word may bring it down upon his head.” 

“ My grandfather will not let the priests do any- 
thing to my uncle ; he has promised me that, over and 
over again,” said Eglantine, lifting her head proudly. 

“ He would promise you the crown diamonds, if you 
asked him, mademoiselle ; he knows not how to say 
you nay. But that is quite a different matter from 
getting them. You have far more to hope for from 
M. Chevalier’s prudence, than from your grandfather’s 
interference. M. Laval is no that anxious to be out of 


FIRELIGHT. 


15 


favor with the Jesuits himself ; no one need be who 
has an eye to court favor or public preferment. But 
dry your eyes, my little lady. Your father’s daughter 
may see a danger, but she should never fear it. It was 
your mother’s wish that you should not be brought up^ 
as she was, in ignorance of the perils about you. She 
made your grandfather promise that, when at the 
last she sent for him, and touched by his loneliness 
and distress, and remorseful for the sorrow she had 
caused him, she confided to him the secret of your birth, 
and the names of those who had taken you in. She 
hoped, she said, that some day you might make up to 
him for the disappointment she had caused, but she 
bade him never forget the debt he owed to pastor 
Chevalier and his wife, and not to take you from them, 
without their consent. Above all, she made him 
promise to let no hope of worldly advantage tempt 
him to betray the secret to her husband’s people, or 
come between you and your marriage with Master 
Rene, if your heart was set that way, when you were 
grown. Hark, Mistress Eglantine ; is not that the 
sound of wheels on the road without ? Who can be 
arriving so late this February night?” 

The little girl had turned her head, and was listen- 
ing. 

“ It is M. Henri’s voice,” she cried, springing up, 
and overturning a cricket on her way to the door. 
The old nurse shook her head, as she folded up her 
knitting, and prepared to follow. The tears had van- 
ished from the warm young cheek, like rain-drops from 
an April rose. 


CHAPTER 11. 


COUNTING THE COST. 


HE lights were out in the Huguenot temple ; the 



1 consistory had dispersed, and old Basil, the sex- 
ton, stood waiting to lock the door, as the pastor and 
a solitary companion came out. The face of the min- 
ister was irradiated with saintly joy, but the cheek of 
the young man was flushed, and his slouched hat was 
drawn far over his brow. Godfrey Chevalier paused 
a moment beside the white-haired sexton. 

“ Congratulate Armand,” he said gently. Like 
Peter, he denied his Master in an hour of sore temp- 
tation, but like the great apostle, he, too, has bitterly 
repented, and been, he hopes, forgiven. The Church 
has restored him to membership.” 

“ Is it indeed so ? ” asked the old man, glancing at 
the averted face. “ Then God be praised, my young 
brother, and may He give you grace to stand steadfast 
henceforward.” 

“ Pray for me,” muttered Armand, clasping the prof- 
fered hand, but not lifting his head. 

“ We have need to pray for each other, if the edicts 
are to grow much stricter,” was the heavy answer. 
“ The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” 

The minister uncovered his head, and lifted a calm, 
fearless glance to the encircling hills. 

“The Lord sitteth King forever,” he repeated tri- 
umphantly. “ Courage, Basil, ‘ His strength is made 


(i6) 


COUNTING THE COST. 


17 

perfect in weakness.’ Be of good comfort, my poor 
Armand; ‘ To whom much is forgiven, the same loveth 
much.’ ‘Watch and pray lest ye enter into tempta- 
tion.’ ” 

He replaced his hat, and with a slight gesture of 
farewell, turned away. The two men stood listening 
to his footsteps until they died away down the moun- 
tain road. Then Basil turned to lock the door, sigh- 
ing. 

“ It is not the withered trunk the bolt first smites : 
it is not for myself I most fear, M. le Pasteur.” He 
glanced up for sympathy to the penitent, but Armand 
had gone. 

There was a light in the window of the pastor’s cot- 
tage, as he opened the ivy-covered gate, and a woman’s 
dark-robed figure stood waiting in the shadow of the 
porch. Monique Chevalier’s cheek had lost something 
of its bloom, and her brow been touched by care, since 
the summer day so long ago, when she had given a 
nameless stranger shelter in her porch, but there was 
still the tender light in the dark eyes, and the stead- 
fast sweetness aboujt the grave lips, which had made 
poor Madame Bertrand’s broken heart instinctively 
flow out to her in trust, and had made Godfrey Chev- 
alier, from the hour when he had first seen her, know 
her to be more to him than the light of his eyes — 
more than aught but the love of Christ and the hope 
of heaven. She had been a wealthy gentleman’s 
daughter, and he only a young licentiate, then; but 
there had been no faltering in the hand she placed in 
his, and no hesitation in the feet which had quitted 
for him the green and pleasant paths to climb the 
rough and stony slopes of a Huguenot pastor’s lot. 
He loved her with a deep, silent passion, which had 
become inwrought with every fibre of his nature, but 


1 8 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


there was little outward token in the grave kiss he set 
upon her brow. 

“You are later than usual to-night : I could not help 
feeling anxious,” she faltered, as they went in together 
to the cosy sitting-room, where a child was asleep on 
the cushions of the settle. 

“ Poor little maid. I promised her a story, but the 
vigil has been too long,” said the father tenderly, as 
he touched the golden curls of the little sleeper; and 
then he told the story of Armand, as he hung up his 
hat and cloak. His wife was setting out a slight re- 
fection for him upon the table. He noticed that her 
hand trembled, and that she did not answer. No 
musician could be more sensitive to a discord than the 
grave, scholarly man to any change in the voice or face 
he loved best. 

“What is it, Monique?” he asked, glancing up 
quickly. 

She turned pale, and leaned against the table. 

“ There has been another edict, Godfrey. Our pas- 
tors are forbidden to restore backsliders under heavy 
penalties.” 

“ How have you heard ? ” 

“ Henri La Roche has just returned from Paris. He 
stopped to leave a packet of letters for you, and find- 
ing his father here, tarried awhile. They would have 
waited until you came, but it grew so late.” 

“Has our young sieur succeeded in obtaining his 
commission ?” 

“ He has good hopes of receiving it at last. His 
uncle Renau has the matter in hand, and will send him 
word next week.” 

There was a slight pause while he broke the seal of 
the packet she handed him. 

“ His majesty is slow in rewarding the services of so 


COUNTING THE COST. 


19 


loyal a subject, but monsieur is not of the king’s re- 
ligion. What are the penalties attached to the new 
edict, Monique ? ” 

She gave a fearful glance over her shoulder, and 
drew a step nearer to his chair. 

“ Hard labor at the galleys — for life,” she whispered. 

Godfrey Chevalier started. He had not expected 
this. Instead of answering her, he rose and walked to 
the window, and stood for several minutes looking out 
on the moonlit hills. Then he came back slowly to 
the table. 

“The King of kings has commanded, ^Restore such 
an one in the spirit of meekness.’ Whom should we 
obey, Monique ? ” 

She could not answer; her lip trembled. 

“Would you have had me act otherwise to-night, if 
I had known ? ” 

A moment more of hesitation, and then her dark, 
tear-filled eyes met his. 

- “ It was your duty to take him back, Godfrey. I 
cannot wish you had acted differently.” 

He stretched his hand to her across the table. 
“Thank you,” he said quietly ; but the look and the 
firm, close clasp enriched her more than many words. 
“We will hope the edict will not be rigidly enforced. 
Were there aught else, Monique ?” 

“The singing of psalms has been forbidden in work- 
shops and private dwellings — anywhere beyond the 
limits of the temple. Oh, Godfrey ! I heard you chant- 
ing a verse as you came up the hill.” 

“ I will not do it again, Monique. We will make 
melody in our hearts hereafter. Is that all ? ” 

“ The prohibitions against emigration are renewed, 
and the penalties increased. Our schoolmasters are 
forbidden to teach anything but reading, writing, and 


20 


I/OJV THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


arithmetic, and our burials must take place after night- 
fall, or before daybreak. Our young sieur is on fire 
with indignation.” 

“ Nevertheless we must submit ourselves blameless to 
every ordinance that does not contravene a higher law. 
The Lord’s cause does not languish, Monique. Here 
is a letter from Charenton. M. Claude has at last 
yielded to the entreaties of his friends, and is to have 
a conference with the Bishop of Condome. Eloquent 
as he is, M. Bossuet will find he has no mean antago- 
nist in the champion of the wilderness church. There 
will be bold words spoken for the truth. God grant 
the faith of more than one wavering heart may be 
established.” 

“And that our noble kinsman himself suffer no loss 
for his championship,” added the pastor’s wife. 

She rose as she spoke in answer to a sleepy murmur 
from the settle. Little Agnes was awake — a grave, 
fragile-looking child, with eyes in which lay mirrored 
the fear that had rested on her mother’s heart ; and 
delicate features, which looked almost ethereal under 
the nimbus of golden hair. Monique Chevalier lifted 
her from the cushions, and led her to her father for 
his good-night kiss. The pastor gave it tenderly, and 
looked after them with a moistened glance as they left 
the room. She was such a gentle flower — this, his 
youngest and darling — living only in the smiles of 
those she loved, and trembling at any rude word or 
look. How would she breast the storm, whose mut- 
tered thunders were already shaking strong men’s 
souls ? Could that sunny head be always kept safely 
sheltered? Would that tender hand be able to main- 
tain its hold where the grasp of stronger ones was 
being wrenched away ? “ Thou art able to keep that 

which I have committed unto Thee,” he whispered, 


COt/MTiNG THE COST 


glancing upward, and then he broke the seal of the other 
letter that lay before him. His brow grew stern, as 
he gathered its purport. For several minutes he sat 
deeply pondering, then taking a sudden resolution, he 
rose and went out into the passage. A faint light 
gleamed from under a door at the farther end. A 
murmur of children’s voices came down the corridor. 

“ It is well. They are still up and together,” he 
murmured ; and noiselessly approaching the door, 
lifted the latch. 

The apartment was the cosy, well-appointed kitchen, 
in which Nannette had told her story in the earlier 
part of the evening. The old nurse was gone; the fire 
had sunk to a few glowing embers. Eglantine sat on 
a low cricket, drawn well forward on the blue and 
white tiles, her cheek resting in her hand, her gaze 
fixed thoughtfully upon the coals. Beside her, leaning 
against the massive oaken beam that supported the 
mantel-shelf, was a boy some four years her senior. 
His figure was in shadow, while hers, by some sweet 
law of attraction, seemed to gather to itself all the 
radiance that yet lingered in the room. A large 
volume, from which they had evidently been read- 
ing before the firelight failed, lay on the floor between 
the two. The little girl was speaking as the pastor 
entered. 

“I would not kneel to the \ irgin, nor make the sign 
of the cross, if the priests should break every bone in 
my body,” she protested warmly, evidently in answer 
to some appeal from the lad, whose dark, piercing eyes 
were fixed upon her through the gloom. 

‘‘You should not speak so positively,” he answered. 
“No one knows what he would do until he is tried.” 

“ But I do know, Rene. When uncle Godfrey let the 
blood from my arm last month, did I not hold still 


22 


BOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


without a whimper ; and did not Antoine say I bore 
the pain like a martyr ? ” 

“ Then you had my mother to sit by and hold youf 
hand, and my father to kiss you and call you a brave 
little maid when it was over. That was nothing, 
Eglantine.” 

“ Then why did you turn white at sight of the blood, 
and let Nannette fetch you a glass of water, like a girl ? 
I was cool enough to mark that. Master Rene.” 

‘‘You know very well that was because I could not 
bear to see you hurt.” A sudden leap of the dying 
flames showed a swift leap of scarlet into the olive 
cheek. “ It is hardly fair to taunt me with that^ 
Eglantine.” 

Godfrey Chevalier, who had been listening unno- 
ticed, laid his hand upon his son’s shoulder. The boy 
looked up with a quick smile, which spoke volumes 
for the friendship between them, and Eglantine, with 
a cry of delight, started from her cricket, and threw 
her arms about her uncle’s neck. 

“ Softly, thou small whirlwind,” he cried, laughing, 
but he drew her tenderly to him as he spoke, and tak- 
ing a seat on the settle, beckoned Rene to a place be- 
side them. 

“ I have had a letter to-night which concerns both 
you and Eglantine,” he said. “ Hold up your head, 
little maid, and tell me how old you are ? ” 

“Twelve this mid-summer, uncle Godfrey.” 

“Full young to be sent out to meet the world, the 
flesh, and the devil, but your grandfather will have it 
so. What were you speaking of, my son, when I came 
in?” 

“We had been speaking first, my father, of the new 
edict, which M. Henri brought us word of to-night, and 
then I had read to Eglantine the story of sweet Philippa 


COUNTING THE COST. 


^3 


Lunz, and we were supposing that those old days were 
to come back again, and we should have to hold the 
faith as hardly as our forefathers did. And Eglantine 
was sure she would be as steadfast as the noble mar- 
tyr herself.” 

“ And you were trying to convince her that it would 
be no easy task ? Right, Rene, if you looked at it 
from the standpoint of our frail human hearts, but 
only half right, unless you pointed her, too, to the 
strength that is made perfect in weakness. Light the 
candle, my son. I will give you a watchword to-night, 
little maid, that you shall keep in your heart all the 
years that are to come.” He drew a small volume 
with silver clasps from his breast, and by the light of 
the candle which Rene brought. Eglantine read the 
words pointed Out : “I will lift up mine eyes unto the 
hills from whence cometh my help. My help cometh 
from the Lord which made heaven and earth.” 

Not from yourself, little one ; your own heart 
and your own hand will fail thee in the day of trial : 
your best resolutions wither like withes in the furnace 
of temptation. Put your trust in Him who ‘knoweth 
neither variableness nor shadow of turning’; He alone 
is able to keep you from falling. He alone is able, 
with every temptation, to make a way of escape.” 

“ Is my grandfather going to take me away ? ” asked 
the child, recalling the words he had spoken when he 
first came in. 

M. Laval stopped at La Rochelle on his way to 
Paris, and met an aunt of your mother’s, his wife’s 
elder sister. Madame Cartel would have her young 
kinswoman come to her for a year or two, little one, 
that you may have proper masters for music and the 
languages, and be cured of what your grandfather is 
pleased to call rustic voice and manners.” 


24 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“ But you will not make me go ? — you will not send 
me away from you ? ” cried Eglantine, starting from 
her covert in his arms to look anxiously into his face. 

He drew her gently back. “ I will help you to do 
what is right and best. Madame Cartel is a member 
of the Reformed Church, and promises not to neglect 
that education which I hold most important. But she 
says, what is very true, that you cannot in these wild 
hills obtain the advantages which become your moth- 
er’s daughter, and it is also true what your grand- 
father adds, that you should see something of the 
world before deciding irrevocably upon the home 
Rene has to offer you.” 

Eglantine glanced up with tearful eyes at the quiet 
figure beside her. 

“ I will never love anybody better than Rene, if I see 
the whole world,” she said, warmly. Her uncle smiled, 
and a strange, soft light transfigured his son’s face. 

“ I would have to leave you soon. Eglantine, to go 
to Montauban,” said the boy, gently. 

“ If you love each other, a few years’ separation will 
make little difference,” added Godfrey Chevalier. 
“ The shadows thicken about our Reformed Church, 
and I know not how long my home may be a safe shel- 
ter for those I love. It will be a comfort to me, little 
one, to think of you as protected by powerful friends, 
until Rene has a home of his own to offer you. You 
speak of Montauban, my son. You have yet to hear 
what M. Laval says to you. Take the letter and read. 
You must decide for yourself.” 

The boy took the packet quietly, and going to the 
table, sat down and began to read. The pastor and 
his little foster-daughter watched with different emo- 
tions the face now clearly illuminated by the candle. 
Plain, dark, strongly marked, it was already shadowed 


COUNTING THE COST 


25 


with thought beyond his years. Monique Chevalier’s 
son had inherited the strength, if not the beauty, of 
his mother’s face, and the grave, firm lips bespoke a 
nature that, like hers, would be patient to wait, as well 
as bold to keep. He returned the letter to his father 
with a grave smile. 

“M. Laval would have me abandon the study of 
medicine to go into his counting-house. What will 
you say to him, my father .? ” 

“ I shall say nothing to him, Rene. The offer is to 
you, and you must make the choice,” 

The boy had risen and come back to the hearth, and 
now stood gazing thoughtfully down into the coals at 
his feet. He was tall for his age, and his sun-burnt 
cheek and well-developed chest and limbs told of 
much exercise in the open air. 

I have heard you say, my father, that you held the 
profession of medicine next in usefulness to that of 
the sacred ministry.” 

I hold so still, Rene, next in usefulness and next 
in danger. You see M. Laval tells us what our young 
sieur forgot to mention, that the last edict closes the 
door of your chosen profession to all adherents of the 
religion.” 

Godfrey Chevalier’s son looked up with a deep, 
steady fire in his eyes. 

‘‘There are Huguenot physicians, however, already 
in the field, who will gladly open to those who knock. 

I cannot draw back, my father. If I may not follow 
your calling, I will at least follow in your steps. I 
would be unworthy to be called your son if I faltered 
now. The greater the peril, the fewer there will be 
who will run the risk, and the fewer, the more need.” 
He stopped suddenly at a low sob from Eglantine. 
The prospect of her separation from those she loved 


26 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


best had been growing on her childish heart until the 
small cup had overflowed. 

I want my aunt Monique. Let me go to my aunt 
Monique ! ” she exclain>ed in a passion of grief, and 
breaking from the pastor’s arms, fled precipitately 
from the room. 

“ Let be. The mother v/ill know how to comfort 
her,” said Godfrey Chevalier. “ My son, did you mark 
no double meaning in what M. Laval said of the 
dowry he would bestow upon his granddaughter, and 
the interest he would give you in the business if you 
would show yourself agreeable to his wishes ? ” 

“ It is plain that he likes not the prospect of a hard 
and perilous life for Eglantine,” answered Rene. “ I 
infer we would have little to hope from him in the way 
of worldly advantage, if I displease him now. But you 
know I have never looked to the money, my father.” 

“ That were little, if that were all, though a share of 
this world’s goods would help thee over many a rough 
place in these troublous times. Look again, Rene. 
Remember that M. Laval loves his granddaughter bet- 
ter than aught else in the world ; that he holds the 
secret of her parentage ; and that his attachment to 
our Church is only nominal. Remember, that though 
he has never ventured to claim her openly, it is in his 
power to do so at any moment, and that you may find 
it difficult some day to press thy suit with the man 
you have angered and crossed. M. Laval will not 
lightly break the promise made to the dead, but he 
warns you plainly to be careful how you decide.” 

‘‘ You surely do not think he would dare to betray 
the secret of her birth to the Catholic relatives? ” 

‘‘Read the letter again.” 

There was no sound but the crackling of the embers 
upon the hearth, as the lad, who had all at once grown 


COUNTING THE COST. 


27 


very pale, obeyed. He did not look up when he had 
finished, as he had done the first time, and his father 
laid his hand upon his shoulder. 

“ ‘ Which of you, intending to build a tower, sitteth 
not down first, and counteth the cost, whether he have 
sufficient to build it, lest haply, after he hath laid the 
foundations, he is not able to finish.’ Rene, I pray 
God to give you the desire of your heart, but it is well 
to ask yourself in the beginning, is there aught dearer 
to you in the world than Christ, your Lord ? ” 

The youth struggled v/ith himself for a moment 
more, but it was evidently only to control his emotion. 
Then he looked up, his face still pale, but his eyes 
glowing. 

I cannot draw back, but I cannot give her up,” he 
cried. “You have taught me all my life to look upon 
her as a trust to us from God. What He has given 
into my care. He will surely give me strength to keep. 
I might hesitate to ask her to share so hard a lot, if I 
did not feel that she would be safer with me than with 
any one else, just because I love and understand her, 
and will watch over her, as no one else ever would. 
Let M. Laval do his worst, my father ; I will trust God 
for the future, and go forward and do my duty.” 

“ Yx)u are resolved upon that, Rene ? ” 

“At any cost. ^ Whoso loveth houses and lands 
more than Him, is not worthy of Him.’ ” 

“Then I have not been disappointed in you, my 
son’'; and the Huguenot folded his boy in a close 
embrace. “ Be of good cheer, Rene. It is written : 

‘ Delight thyself also in the Lord, and He shall give 
thee the desires of thine heart.’ ” 

Late that night, as the pastor sat writing at his 
Study-table, he became suddenly conscious of two 
burning eyes watching him through the pane ovef 


28 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


which he had forgotten to draw the curtain. He rose 
at once, and went to the window. The moon was al- 
ready on the wane, but there was still sufficient light 
to make cbjects discernible. There was no one with- 
out. After watching several minutes, he was about to 
turn away, thinking he had been the victim of some 
strange hallucination, when a stealthy shadow creeping 
out from under the garden wall, flitted across the road, 
and disappeared in the opposite wood. 

The slouched hat, and short, ragged cloak were those 
of Armand, the penitent. 


CHAPTER III. 


IN THE SNARE. 

T here fails sometimes into Southern Febru- 
aries, a day of early warmth, when the winds 
sleep, and the sapphire skies drop violets, and the hill- 
sides open veins of crocus gold. We hear the birds 
sing in the wood, and become conscious all at once 
of a yellow down on the tips of the naked elms, and a 
fine unguent scattered in the air. The fears that lay 
heavy on our hearts loose their hold with the brooks. 
Hope mounts in the blood, like the melting sap in the 
wood. 

It was such a morning in the Cevennes a few weeks 
After the return of the young sieur. La Roche, to his 
father’s chateau. The snows had melted from the 
hills during the night, and the fine, clear air that smote 
his cheek as he opened his turret window, brought the 
bleat of lambs from the opposite slope. The view visi- 
ble from the latticed casement was one calculated to 
stir the enthusiasm of a heart less ardent than that of 
Henri La Roche. The chateau stood on one of the 
natural terraces of the hills, and just below lay the 
lovely valley of the Vaunage, the fair Canaan of South- 
ern France, carpeted with verdure. Northward the 
mighty shoulders of Mounts Mazin and Lozere thrust 
themselves through melting mantles of mist. Far 
away to the east, touched by the rising sun, flashed the 
towers and spires of Nismes, while a turquoise gleam 

(39) 


30 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


on the edge of the southern horizon told where the 
fertile meadows of Languedoc met the blue waters of 
the Mediterranean, two thousand feet below. 

With an elastic step and a brighter look than he had 
worn for many a day, the young sieur entered the 
stone-paved hall where his father sat at breakfast. 

“There is rare sport upon the hills to-day, Jean tells 
me. With your good-will, my father, we will have the 
falcons after breakfast, and' go a-hunting. I do but 
eat my heart out waiting here by the fire for the boon 
that never comes. Since his majesty cannot trust a 
Huguenot gentleman to lead his troops against the 
enemy, I must content myself with smaller game. 
Jean hath gone to bid Rene Chevalier be ready to ac- 
company us.” 

Monsieur lifted his fine, impassive face from the 
pile of letters beside his plate. He was a stately, 
soldierly-looking old man, and his suit of plain black 
velvet was devoid of any ornament but a military 
badge upon the breast. His left sleeve was empty, 
and a sword hung at his side. 

“ You will have no reason to complain of the quality 
of your game another spring,” he said, as his white, 
wrinkled hand selected a paper from those before 
him, and extended it to Henri. “ Our grand monarch 
hath indeed been slow in granting the prayer of an old 
servant, who has begrudged neither blood nor treas- 
ure for his throne ; but Minister Colbert’s entreaties, 
joined to those of our cousin Renau, have carried the 
day. There is your commission, Henri, to a regiment 
on the Spanish frontier. I would you might have 
learned the art of war under my old captain, Turenne 
—so true a gentleman and so pure a knight. But since 
that may not be, I am glad you are to carve out your 
fortune on the bodies of bead-telling Spaniards, not 


IN THE SNARE. 


31 

on the stout breasts of fellow-Protestants — Dutchmen 
though they be.” 

The young man had seized the paper, and was de- 
vouring the contents with sparkling eyes. 

‘‘His majesty shall never regret placing this confi- 
dence in me,” he exclaimed proudly. “ I have but one 
regret, my father, that the peace of Nimeguen gives 
me small opportunit}^ at present to display my loyalty. 
Minister Colbert will do me another good turn if he 
ceases his groans over the empty treasury, and per- 
mits our king’s native love of glory to give his soldiers 
an occasion to unsheath their swords. The king’s 
enemies are mine, be they Papist or Protestant.” 

The father lifted his hand. 

“Peace, foolish boy. You know as little of the hor- 
rors of carnage as of the heavy burdens which his 
majesty’s glorious wars have laid upon the shoulders 
of his people and the table of his minister. You will 
have occasion soon enough, I doubt not, to win your 
laurels. I wish I were as sure of thy loyalty to the 
King of kings, Henri, as I am of thy faithfulness to the 
trust which our earthly sovereign has reposed in thee.” 

The young man flushed angrily, but unable to bear 
the keen glance bent upon him, his eyes fell, and he 
tried to laugh away the rebuke. 

“ ’Pon my word, my father, that is a sharp speech 
from thy lips. What has drawn it down upon my 
head, — the gay attire with which I scandalized the 
temple- folk last Sabbath, or the laugh over the top of 
the pew with that dark-eyed little witch at Madame 
Chevalier’s side ? I have atoned for the first with a 
louis d’or to every old grandsire and grandame I have 
met this week, and I have submitted to a grave lecture 
from Madame Chevalier for the second, and promised 
Da Petite a rose-colored ribbon the next time I go to 


32 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


Nismes to make up to her for the disgrace into which 
I brought her.” 

The sieur La Roche looked excessively annoyed. 
‘‘I wish you would be more thoughtful, Henri. The 
rose-colored ribbon will please Madame Chevalier 
hardly more than the laugh in church, or the book of 
fairy-tales you brought the child down from Paris, and 
for which I hear she often neglects her lessons and 
better reading. It ill becomes you to set temptation 
in the path of one so young, and for whom our good 
pastor and his wife feel such special anxiety.” 

Henri shrugged his shoulders with a laugh. I will 
not buy the ribbon, of course, if you object,” he said 
carelessly; “ but Mistress Eglantine needs no teaching 
from me to make her love everything that is bright 
and gay and heroic. Her gentle blood shows itself as 
much in that as in the set of her small head, or the 
shape of her little hand. Pastor Chevalier and his wife 
cannot rub the one out of her any more than the other, 
and unless what I heard of Madame Cartel in Paris 
was false, my father, the little maid will have all the 
ribbons and fairy-tales she wants when she is once 
under that lady’s care.” 

“Then Godfrey Chevalier and his wife shall be told 
of it,” replied monsieur gravely. “ Baptiste,” to the 
old butler, who entered the room, “tell Armand, the 
new groom, to have my horse at the door after break- 
fast. I have letters from the capital on which I must 
consult M. Chevalier.” 

“ Armand is not here this morning, my lord. If you 
please, I will take the order to Jacques instead.” 

“ Do so, then. But stay,” catching sight of some- 
thing in the wrinkled face ; “ is there aught wrong 
with that fellow Armand ? You — none of you like him, 
I know that.” 


IN THE SNARE. 


33 


“ He had a surly way about him, my lord, but the 
men had your orders, and they knew it was the pastor 
who bespoke him the place.” 

“ Then what ails thee to change color at the mention 
of his name ? Out with it, Baptiste.” 

The old man went to the door, examined it to make 
sure it was quite closed, and then came close to his 
master’s chair. 

“ The fellow asked leave last night to go down to 
Beaumont to see his mother ; but we have sent to the 
hamlet this morning, and she hath seen nothing of him. 
One of the maids is sure she saw him talking two days 
ago with the cure.” 

Monsieur’s usually placid brow darkened. 

“ Why was I not told of this at once ? ” he demanded 
sharply. “ Tell Jacques to saddle the horses at once, 
Baptiste, and then come and let me know if aught 
more has been heard of the fellow.” He looked anx^ 
iously at his son as the serving-man retired. 

“ Armand has gone over to Lodeve to see his sweet- 
heart, and Marie has an attack of jealousy,” laughed 
H ^nri, as he took his seat at the table and helped him- 
self to a piece of cold pasty. “I cannot think evil of 
any one on a day like this, my father. I don’t suppose 
it is anything worse than a stolen holiday.” 

“ I hope not.” But Henri La Roche’s father pushed 
away his plate, and the old stag -hound, who knew 
every tone of her master’s voice, rose from her couch 
upon the hearth-rug, and came and looked anxiously 
into his face. “ They are prejudiced against the 
groom, and quick to believe evil of him, no doubt, 
yet I have never wholly trusted the man myself, 
Henri. Hark ! was that the sound of shouting in the 
hamlet ? ” 

“ I noticed nothing, sir.” 


34 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“ Then there must be something wrong with my 
old ears. I could swear there comes and goes on the 
breeze a murmur like an angry sea. But I suppose it 
is only my old heart projecting its fears into the 
things about me. Ha ! ” — as Baptiste, with a scared 
face, re-entered the room — “ What ails thee, my man ? 
Is there aught wrong in the village ?” 

“There is a tumult, my lord. Madame Chevalier 
hath sent Jean running back to pray you come and 
speak a quieting word to them.” 

The sieur La Loche rose to his feet. “ What is 
the meaning of the uproar, Baptiste, and where is M. 
Chevalier? Will they not listen to their pastor?” 

The old servant burst into tears. “Alas, monsieur ! 
M. Chevalier will not soon be seen in our hills again 
The gendarmes surrounded the cottage at daybreak, 
and arrested him before he could spring from his 
couch. He is already on his way to prison.” 

Monsieur covered his face with his hands. “Appre- 
hended ! — and by the king’s officers ! God have mercy 
on our stricken Church.” 

But Henri had leaped from the table, with lightning 
flashing from under suddenly darkened brows. 

“ How dared they ! The pastor was under my 
father’s protection ! What pretext do they make for 
the indignity? Speak, Jean ! ” to the valet, who had 
followed trembling. 

“ The accusation is heavy enough, my young sieur. 
They say he has openly defied the king by breaking 
the last edict, and taking back into his church those 
who had been converted to the true faith ; and that 
he hath spoken seditious words in the temple, teaching 
the people to obey their ministers rather than the 
king. Antoine says M. Chevalier would make no re- 
sistance after he had read the warrant ; only he com- 


IN THE SNARE, 


35 


plained that the charge was political, and that he was 
not allowed to suffer in the name of the religion. He 
would, he said, that he were as innocent of any sin 
against his God as of any disloyalty to his king.’* 

“ Whither have they taken him ?” 

“ To the citadel of St. Esprit. The order was from 
the Intendant of Nismes.” 

Henri turned to his father, his glance like an un- 
sheathed sword. 

“ Will you submit quietly to this injustice, sir, or 
will you giv£ me permission to place myself at the 
head of the tenantry, and attempt a rescue? We 
could overtake them by a cut through the hills.” 

The words roused M. La Roche from his stupor of 
grief. Sternly he tapped the military decoration upon 
his breast. 

“ Have you just received a commission in the king’s 
army, and do you speak of resisting the king’s or- 
ders?” he demanded. “Never let me hear such a 
word from your lips again, my son. We may recog- 
nize the hand that deals this blow, but we dare not 
forget that it wears the mailed gauntlet of France. 
Baptiste, see if our horses are ready. We will mount 
at once.” And as the man flew to execute his orders, 
he went up to his son, who had turned away, flush- 
ing scarlet at his reproof “ Thou art the joy of my 
life, Henri, even when I chide thee,” he said tenderly. 
“ Resistance would but seal our friend’s doom, and 
give the strongest possible coloring to the accusation 
of his enemies. But there are still means which must 
not be left untried. Take Jean, my son, and ride down 
at once to Nismes. See M. D’Argoussy in my name, 
and discover if the payment of any fine will secure 
our pastor’s release or lighten his imprisonment. Ob- 
tain speech with him also, if possible, and come back 


36 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


and bring us tidings. I will to quiet these poor grief- 
stricken people, and comfort Madame Chevalier, if 
possible/’ 

The glance of father and son met. 

“ You have little hope ? ” said the latter sadly. 

“ His enemies seek his life. The charge of sedition 
proves that.” 

The young man threw his arm around his father’s 
neck. “You questioned my loyalty to the Reformed 
faith a few moments since, sir. I am not what I should 
be, and I fear I have too often grieved you and our 
dear pastor by my jests at our grave dress and man- 
ners, but you shall both see, now that the religion is 
really endangered, none will hold to it more firmly 
nor defend it more warmly than I.” 

“ God helping thee,” was the grave answer. But 
monsieur’s sad face was illuminated by a momentary 
gleam of joy. How often in the years to come would 
Henri La Roche remember those words. 

He spoke but once more as they descended the 
broad staircase to the court : 

“Armand, the traitor!” he hissed between his set 
ceeth. But the sieur La Roche pointed upward. 

“ ‘Vengeance is mine : I will recompense, saith the 
Lord,’ ” he repeated solemnly. 


CHAPTER IV. 


AN OPEN DOOR. 

O F the anguish and dread of the days that fol- 
lowed what need to speak ? There will be few 
who will read these pages who will not have known 
some such night of sorrow. By dying pillows or 
on stormy shores — watching some battle from afar 
off or waiting outside some prison-gate — sooner or 
later to every disciple must come the Master’s sum- 
mons, Can ye not watch with me one hour?” And 
sooner or later, over every quivering heart, be cast the 
same blessed shield, “ The spirit indeed is willing, but 
the flesh is weak.” 

The keen frosts of February gave way to the v/indy 
bugles and budding boughs of March ; March blos- 
somed into April, and April was hovering on the 
threshold of May, when one morning the secretary of 
the Intendant of Nismes entered the cabinet of his 
chief. 

“ M. Laval,” he announced. 

“ I cannot see him. Admit none of the pastor’s 
friends to-day.” 

M. D’Argoussy will hardly obtain the loans Min- 
ister Colbert has asked for if he offends the banker.” 

“ I will take the risk of that. I would sooner see 
the arch-fiend himself than Pierre Laval or the La 
Roches to-day. Tell him I am out — sick — anything 
you like.” 


( 37 ) 


38 


BO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


The subordinate retired slowly to the ante-room, 
where a stout, gray-haired man in citizen’s dress stood 
waiting. 

“ The Intendant is closeted with a messenger from 
Paris, and can see no one to-day. If you will be good 
enough to call to-morow ” 

The wealthy banker interrupted him with an impa- 
tient gesture, and turned sharply on his heel. He had 
heard M. D’Argoussy’s complaining voice through 
the partition, and divined only too heavily the real 
cause of his refusal. He retraced his steps down the 
corridor, and was descending the staircase that led to 
the street, when at a dark turn he felt a hand laid 
softly on his arm, and turning, confronted a priest 
wearing the black robe and cowl of a Dominican. 
The ecclesiastic laid a warning finger upon his lips, 
and motioned his companion to follow him through a 
door, which had opened noiselessly, into a small cab- 
inet, apparently in connection with the Intendant’s 
office, but which the banker had never noticed before. 
Two clerks sat writing at a table. At a gesture from 
the priest they retired, and the Dominican motioned 
the banker to one of the empty seats. 

“ I beg your pardon for this detention, M. Laval, 
but I understand you are here in the interests of pastor 
Chevalier. Doubtless you are a friend or relative, and 
will be willing to do a slight service for us both.” 

Considering the man’s garb and the character of 
the times, it is not strange that Pierre Laval changed 
color and hesitated. He had not been able to refrain 
from telling Madame Chevalier that if her husband 
had listened to the advice of his friends, he would 
never have brought them and himself into so much 
trouble. But he had labored night and day to save 
him, all the same, pouring out gold and influence as 


AN OPEN DOOR. 


39 


freely as M. La Roche himself. Now, for the first time, 
it flashed upon him that his warm espousal of the 
pastor’s cause might have brought his own person and 
opinions into unpleasant notoriety. His companion 
hastened to reassure him. 

“ I come to crave a boon, not to spy out the land, 
monsieur. The heretic pastor has been anxious from 
the beginning of his imprisonment to communicate 
with his wife \ but as no one knew of her whereabouts, 
or was willing to appear to know, it has been hitherto 
impossible. It was with the hope that as a friend or 
kinsman you might be able to further such a letter on 
its way, that I ventured to address you. But I see I 
have made a mistake. I will detain you no further.” 

There is no mistake,” exclaimed M. Laval impul- 
sively, his fears quite disarmed by this explanation, 
and his heart swelling at the prospect of carrying back 
such a cup of comfort to the desolate wife. “I have 
known pastor Chevalier and his wife for years, and 
am under great obligations to them both. Entrust the 
packet to me : I will see that it reaches her in safety.” 

He extended his hand, and the dark eyes, watching 
him keenly and stealthily from under the black hood, 
dilated with a sudden flash. A student of men look- 
ing on might have said that the priest had tested and 
now thoroughly understood his tool, but Pierre Laval 
saw only a dim smile gleam across the wasted features, 
and heard no irony in the Dominican’s voice as he an- 
swered : 

“You are in haste, monsieur. M. Chevalier has yet 
to write the letter, but if you will tell me where it may 
be sent, I will see that it is placed in your hands 
before evening.” 

The banker mentioned the name and number of the 
street upon which he lived, and the monk rose as if to 


40 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


indicate that the interview was over. Pierre Laval 
lingered. 

“ May I not know the name of the priest who is so 
bold and humane as to take interest in the wishes of a 
Huguenot and a prisoner ? ” Another faint, indefin- 
able smile flitted across the pale lips. 

“I am Father Ambrose, the cure of the fortress, 
and M. Chevalier’s spiritual adviser. Rather a nomi- 
nal position, the last,” answering the look of surprise 
in the other’s honest eyes. ‘‘ But at least I have tor- 
mented him less than others of my order might have 
done, and you may say to Madame Chevalier that her 
husband has had every alleviation to his condition 
that it was possible to procure. 

“ Nay, do not misunderstand me, monsieur,” as 
Pierre Laval would once more eagerly have inter- 
rupted him, “there was little in my power to do for 
one so fanatical as Godfrey Chevalier, and I am a 
loyal son of my Church. I would fain have converted 
him from his heresies, if that had been possible ; but 
since it was not, I have forborne to annoy him more than 
my conscience absolutely required. I owe to Madame 
Chevalier an old and yet uncancelled debt, for which 
any slight kindness I show her husband is but scant 
return.” He glanced pointedly at the door, but Eg- 
lantine’s grandfather now held him firmly by the 
sleeve. 

“ If you are indeed kindly disposed to either God- 
frey Chevalier or his wife, give me some tidings of the 
trial.. My mission here has been fruitless. M. D’Ar- 
goussy evades seeing me. When will sentence be 
passed, and what is it likely to be ? ” 

“ Sentence has been already passed, monsieur. The 
paper lies at this very moment upon the Intendant’s 
table, awaiting his signature. As soon as that is af- 


AN OPEN DOOR. 


41 


fixed, his fate will be communicated to the prisoner 
by the commandant of the fortress, and I must myself 
be in attendance to render what spiritual consolation 
is possible under the circumstances.” 

“ But the sentence, M. le Cure ! Have you heard 
what the sentence is ? ” 

Father Ambrose fixed his dark, hollow eyes with an 
inscrutable expression upon the face of his interlocu- 
tor. 

‘‘ Hard labor at the galleys — for life,” he replied 
slowly. 

Every vestige of color forsook M. Laval’s naturally 
rosy face. 

Impossible ! His enemies could not descend to 
such a depth of malice as that ! ” 

“ It is the penalty attached to the least of M. Cheva- 
lier’s offences. He disobeyed the king’s edict at his 
peril.” 

“ But Godfrey Chevalier is gently born, and the 
galley-ship is the doom of the vilest of the vile. There 
must be some outlet — some door of escape,” the banker 
gasped, as if the atmosphere of the room had begun 
to suffocate him. “ You appear to have some influence 
here. Father ; obtain for me an interview with M. 
D’Argoussy. He must not put his name to that 
paper. I have means to make him listen to me.” 

“ Impossible, monsieur. The Intendant is not un- 
friendly to the prisoner ; but the pressure brought to 
bear upon him is such that he dare not refuse his 
signature. There have been but two chances of escape 
for the pastor from the first, and through neither of 
them will he stoop to find exit. The’ first was a re- 
cantation of his errors, which would have procured 
him a full pardon, or at the least an honorable banish- 
ment, with permission for his family to accompany 


42 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


him, but to this he would not listen for a second; and 
seeing how idle it was, I confess I did not press him 
much. The other, however, was an appeal to the 
king’s grace, and from this I did at first hope much, 
supplemented by the interest at court I could bring 
to bear upon it; but here also M. Chevalier proved in- 
surmountably obstinate, absolutely refusing even to 
look again at the paper, after he had discovered that 
it involved an expression of penitence for the past. 
He regrets nothing, he says, except that he did not 
labor more earnestly while he was still free. I sin- 
cerely pity him, M. Laval, and all who are interested 
in his fate; but it is impossible to save a man who is 
resolved to immolate himself,” 

The color had rushed back to Pierre Laval’s face. 

“ This is madness — fanaticism run to seed,” he ex- 
claimed passionately. “ A drowning man cannot afford 
to split hairs. M. le Cure, it still rests with you to save 
him. Use your influence to get me admitted to the 
fortress, and give me speech with him for half an hour. 
I promise you in less than that time to have made him 
listen to reason. If not for his own sake, then for the 
sake of his helpless family, he must make the conces- 
sion.” 

Father Ambrose considered for a moment, his eyes 
fixed upon the floor. Then he looked up. 

“ You shall have your wish, M, Laval. The prisoner 
has prepared himself, I know, for a sharp and speedy 
death, but it is barely possible that the prospect of 
years of ignominy and toil may shake his resolution. 
You shall have the opportunity to avail yourself of the 
weakness — if there be any. Neither he nor his shall 
ever say I left a stone unturned that might have saved 
him. Nevertheless, I warn you beforehand that I have 
small hope of your success. The rack has not moved 


AN OPEN DOOR, 


43 


him a hair’s breadth, and as for the mention of his wife, 
it seems but to add ardor to his obstinacy. Had I not 
known Monique De Vaux, I would have found it hard 
to understand. But they are moving overhead. M. 
D’Argoussy has yielded at last, and they come to sum- 
mon me. It will not do for you to.be found closeted 
with me. This card will admit you to my private 
apartments at the fortress. Meet me there an hour 
hence, and God and the Virgin speed our cause.” 

He opened the door, and Pierre Laval, thrusting the 
bit of pasteboard into his breast, hurried down the 
steps and into the street, barely in time to escape the 
eyes of an officer, who the moment after descended 
the stair. 

Punctually at the hour named he was at the citadel 
of St. Esprit, and on presenting Father Ambrose’s card, 
was at once admitted to a small, scantily-furnished 
apartment on the ground floor. The door closed, 
and he was left alone. Ten, fifteen minutes passed. 
Father Ambrose did not appear, neither came there 
any tidings from him. His visitor sprang up, and be- 
gan to pace the room restlessly. Once a faint sus- 
picion of the priest’s fidelity crossed his mind, but he 
thrust the thought from him as unworthy. His heart, 
however, had already begun to misgive him as to the 
success of his undertaking. With growing uneasiness, 
he recalled the occasions on which, for one cause or 
another, he had attempted to make the pastor see things 
as he saw them — occasions on which he, Pierre Laval, 
had certainly not come off victorious. But he had put 
his hand to the plough, and could not turn back; be- 
sides, he could never go back to Madame Chevalier 
wdth that fatal sentence, without making one more at- 
tempt to save her husband. Loudly as he might rail 
against their fanaticism, he was sincerely attached to 


44 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


them both, and like many another time-server, in his 
secret heart admired the heroism he dared not imitate. 

At last steps were heard without ; the door opened 
and the Dominican entered. His dark eyes glittered 
with excitement, and the hand with which he grasped 
M. Laval’s was icy in its touch. 

“ Come, monsieur ; now is your opportunity, if ever. 
He has learned his fate with perfect calmness. There 
seems no limit to his infatuation. He even thanks 
God that he is permitted to suffer longer. How much 
of this may be assumed to blind us, who can say? 
You are to have an hour with him alone ; make the 
best use of it you can.” 

He led the way from the room, and Pierre Laval 
followed, more than ever ashamed of his momentary 
suspicion. Down many a winding corridor and stair 
they passed, the light of the upper world receding as 
they went, until the damp breath of the underground 
vaults smote upon the banker’s overwrought senses, 
and he would have stumbled for very blindness in the 
gloom, had not Father Ambrose lighted a taper and 
preceded him the remainder of the way. Before a 
heavily-barred door at the end of the next passage, 
the gendarme, who stood on duty, withdrew at a whis- 
per, and the priest, opening the door, pushed Pierre 
Laval silently forward into what appeared to be a gulf 
of midnight blackness. 

“A light ! I must have a light ! ” cried the banker, 
turning hastily back and attempting to stay the clos-' 
ing door. 

There was no answer but the settling of the massive 
portal in its socket, the creaking of the bolts as they 
were hastily drawn without, and the echo of a faint 
laugh down the vaulted corridor. Instantly every 
slumbering doubt flamed up into open conflagration. 


AN OPEN DOOR. 


45 


God, I am a lost man ! ” he cried; and in his 
despair was about to precipitate himself down the 
steps. 

“ He loseth nothing that loseth not God,” answered 
a calm voice somewhere within the gloom. Faint and 
altered as it was, M. Laval at once recognized it ; even 
to the woman that loved it that voice could not have 
sounded more sweet. 

“ Godfrey, are you indeed here ? Thank heaven ! I 
thought for a moment that I had been entrapped, and 
the moment seemed an eternity. But tell me how I 
may find my way to you in this pitchy dark, for I can 
see no more than an owl at noon.” 

There was a second’s intense silence, then the pas- 
tor cried out : 

“ Is it you, M. Laval ? I did not know you when I first 
spoke. Then I will hear of Monique and my children 
before I go. My God, I thank Thee ! Thou knowest 
I did not look for this — that I had prepared myself to 
drink the cup without one mitigating drop! But Thou 
art ever better to us than we can ask or think.” 

Guided by the voice and the dull clank of a chain, 
as the prisoner raised himself upon his iron bed, Pierre 
Laval groped his way down the steps and across the 
damp floor of the dungeon to the spot whence the 
sounds proceeded. The pastor stretched out his hand 
to guide and welcome him ; the other clutched it eager- 
ly, and the next moment, with a gush of womanlike 
emotion, threw himself upon his friend’s shoulder. 

“ Good heavens ! they have almost killed you with 
their fiendish cruelties ! ” he gasped, shocked to find 
how wasted and feeble was the frame that had lately 
been so strong and stalwart. 

“ The rack is hardly a health-giving couch,” was 
the faint answer, while with a mighty effort Godfrey 


4-6 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


Chevalier concealed the shock that the embrace had 
given to wrenched muscles and shattered nerves. 

But even that hath its soft side if Christ Jesus turn 
the screw. Nay, shudder not, my friend. They have 
done their worst, and it is over. God’s grace has been 
once more sufficient for human weakness, and His glory 
magnified, I trust, in the least of all His saints.” 

“ I would I could see His judgments visited upon 
the heads of your tormentors,” growled M. Laval 
fiercely. “ Out upon that false priest who bade me 
tell Madame Chevalier he had procured for you all 
possible alleviations. What more could they have 
done to you, I wonder ? ” 

“ Nay, if you speak of Father Ambrose, he has in- 
deed proved himself a friend to me throughout ; though 
why, is more than I have been able to make out. I 
should be far weaker than I am, if he had not supple- 
mented my prison-fare with nourishing food from his 
own table, and tended my hurts ever since I was taken 
from the rack, with the skill of a leech and the gentle- 
ness of a woman.” 

“ But have you lain here all these weeks in this hole 
in the earth — this pit of darkness ? He might have 
done better for you than that, methinks.” 

“ He has done all for me in his power, I doubt not. 
1 have only been here four days, monsieur, since they 
have added the charge of treasonable correspondence 
to my other crimes. God forgive them the falsehood. 
My first cell was above ground, and had air and light 
in plenty ; neither is this as dark as it seems to you 
fresh from the outer world. There is a grating in the 
ceiling which lets in a little light from an upper room, 
and through it, for one instant every day, a sunbeam 
flashes in. I call that my little Agnes. When my girl 
is old enough to understand, bid her mother tell her 


AN OPEN DOOR. 


47 


that her father named for her the one bright thing 
that visited him in his dungeon. But I waste these 
priceless moments talking about myself. You have 
come to bring me tidings of those I love.” 

M. Laval moved uneasily. “ I was in Paris when I 
heard of your arrest, Godfrey. I lost no time in com- 
ing home, but when I reached the hills the cottage 
was deserted, and I could get nothing out of the weep- 
ing, frightened peasants, but that they had found it so 
the morning after you were taken. I might have had 
hard work to discover the whereabouts of my little 
granddaughter, if I had not met M. La Roche on the 
street next day, and learned from him that Madame 
Chevalier and the children were living concealed in 
the house of M. Rey, the advocate. It seems the 
young sieur followed you that morning to Nismes, and 
late in the day, getting a whisper that the Intendant 
had given an order to take the children into custody, 
rode back to the hills as for his life. It was midnight 
when he reached there, but he gave Madame Cheva- 
lier the alarm at once, and had them all to the chateau 
before the first streak of light. They lay hidden there 
for a day or two until the first search was over, and 
then the young sieur and his father brought them down 
by night to Nismes. Your wife would hear of nothing 
else, Godfrey. She must be near you, she said, and 
though it was running a great risk, M. La Roche had 
not the heart to say her nay, especially as M. Rey had 
offered the protection of his roof, and could be so fully 
trusted. She has borne up well thus far, but I fear 
she is buoyed up by false hopes of your escape, and 
that this terrible sentence, which I have just learned, 
will smite her to the earth.” 

I have not prayed for her in vain,” was the faint 
answer. ‘‘What of our little Eglantine?” 


48 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


She is at La Rochelle with her grandaunt. I sent 
her there under Nannette’s care a month ago. You 
have nobly discharged the trust my poor daughter 
placed in you, but your wife has now enough to take 
care of her own. But it was not to speak of any of 
them that I came to you.” The banker paused. He 
was painfully conscious that the precious hour was 
melting away ; yet now that the moment had come, he 
felt strangely reluctant to open the mission he had 
been so ready to undertake. 

“ Then what is your errand ? ” asked the pastor with 
some coldness in his tone. He understood his com- 
panion, and divined what was coming. “ Surely not 
the hope of tempting me to purchase my release by a 
recantation ? ” 

If M. Laval had had any lurking thought of propos- 
ing such a course, he had certainly not the courage to 
utter it now. 

Nay, not that,” he said hurriedly. “ But the ap- 
peal to the king’s clemency. Father Ambrose says he 
can back it with much influence at court, and has 
great hopes of its success, procuring at least a com- 
mutation of your sentence.” 

“That will do, my friend. I have told Father Am- 
brose, and I tell you now, that not to save my life will 
I dishonor my Master, and stain my soul by professing 
penitence for a crime of which I am not guilty. It 
would be a lie to God and man, and Christ helping 
me, I will never put my hand to it.” 

“But that is just where you make a mistake, God- 
frey. There is no lie in the matter. You have grown 
morbid, and no wonder : shut up in this dismal hole, 
and racked with fiendish tortures. You ought to know 
as well as I that the phrase is a formal one that de- 
ceives no one, and which a thousand men as guiltless 


AN OPEN DOOR. 


49 


as you have signed without scruple. I am no bigot, as 
you know, but I do you full honor for your religious 
fidelity, and would not utter another word if the mat- 
ter rested there. But this is not a point of conscience, 
but of common sense, and I pray you for your own 
sake to reconsider it.” 

He paused, as if expecting some reply, but the pas- 
tor remained silent, and hoping that he had made 
some impression, he hastened to press his advantage. 

“ I knew and loved your father, Godfrey. We were 
boys at school together, and I have always honored 
you, though our paths have lain in different directions. 
If you like it better, I will meet you on your own 
ground, and make it a matter of principle, too. Me- 
thinks I have heard you say more than once that a 
man’s life was his most precious trust, after his relig- 
ion, and that only a coward would voluntarily resign 
it, and only a blasphemer needlessly endanger it.” 

“ Ay, so have I said, and so say I again ; but a man’s 
life, M. Laval, consisteth not only in the breath in his 
nostrils and the heart-beats in his breast. It is writ- 
ten : ‘To know Thee, the only true God, and Jesus 
Christ, whom Thou hast sent, this is life eternal.’ And 
it is also written of those who, for a few more such 
breaths and heart-throbs, shall surrender that subtler 
and finer principle : ‘ He that saveth his life shall lose 
it.’ I would gladly die, my friend, to make you see : 
‘His favor is life ; His loving-kindness is better than 
life.’” 

“Then you are resolved to immolate yourself?” 
asked M. Laval in a broken voice. 

“ I am resolved to hesitate at no cross that my 
Master holds out to me. But you seem to forget, my 
brother, that it is to life, not death, that I am sum- 
moned.” 


50 


nOJV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“To death in life,” retorted the other passionately. 
“ The galley-ship is a hell upon earth. You do not yet 
comprehend, Godfrey, the depth of the malice that 
has allotted to you such a doom. I pass over the 
toil, the suffering, the exposure, for you have proved 
yourself superior to all assaults of the flesh, but 
consider the shame, the degradation, the contact 
Avith the offscouring of the vile. Great as the mis“ 
eiies of this dungeon may have been, they are 
nothing to what awaits you. Here you have been a 
prisoner ; there you will be a slave. Think of it, 
Godfrey ! You, in whose veins runs gentle blood, 
and who have ever seemed to live on a purer and 
higher plane than ordinary mortals ! — have you re- 
flected what it will be to herd with thieves and mur- 
derers, to be chained for years to one of them, ex- 
posed like them to a master’s lash, and hearing noth- 
ing from morning till night but oaths, and curses, and 
ribald jests ? ” 

“ I have thought of it, my friend ; but I have thought, 
too, of Him who, for our sakes, was numbered with 
the transgressors, and endured the cross and despised 
the shame for the joy set before Him — the joy of sav- 
ing a lost world. And I hav« rejoiced that He has 
counted me worthy to suffer for His name’s sake. 
Have you ever thought, M. Laval, what it was for a 
soul like His to come in contact with a world like 
ours? Nay, do not weep. You have faithfully por- 
trayed to yourself the cruel and shameful part of my 
doom. You fail to see the other and brighter side. 
Believe me, to live will still be Christ, even in the gal- 
ley-ship, and I will not suffer long. Malice sometimes 
overreaches itself, and the rack does not put a man’s 
muscles in trim for the oar.” 

“ But your wife — have you forgotten her ? ” inter- 


AN OPEN DOOR. 


51 


posed M. Laval tremulously. “ You have nerved your- 
self to bear your own suffering. Can you bear the 
thought of hers ? She has kept up a brave front be- 
fore us all, not weeping or moaning like other women, 
but we can see that behind it her heart is slowly 
breaking, and as yet she does not know the worst.” 

It was his last shaft. He had not meant to use it if 
it could possibly be avoided, but he let it fly now in 
utter desperation. The strong quiver that ran through 
the frame beside him told that it had struck home. 
But the man who had spent his life amassing wealth 
never knew all that went and came in the few heart- 
beats before Godfrey Chevalier answered him : 

“ Monique would scorn me if I came back to her a 
coward and a perjurer,” he said, in a faint voice that 
yet had in it the breath of a trumpet note. “ But 
even were she less noble, monsieur, it is not to her 
that my first allegiance is due. It is written : ‘Whoso 
loveth wife and children more than Me is not worthy 
of Me.’ ” 

For many minutes after that there was no sound 
in that dreary dungeon but the dry, choking sobs with 
which M. Laval acknowledged his defeat. 

Then the door opened, and Father Ambrose, taper 
in hand, entered. 

One glance at the faces of the two men sufficed. 

“Well, monsieur, are you satisfied?” he asked the 
banker with a bitter smile ; but the other made no 
answer. The priest turned to Godfrey Chevalier. 

“Your request is granted, M. le Pastor. You have 
permission to write to your wife. T will return im- 
mediately with light and writing materials. There is 
no time to lose, as you are to leave for Toulouse be- 
fore daybreak to-morrow.” Then glancing once more 
at Pierre Laval. Father Ambrose added; 


52 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“ Come, monsieur. Your time is expired, and we will 
have the commandant down upon us, if his orders are 
overstepped.” 

The banker stumbled to his feet. 

“Madame Chevalier and the children shall never 
suffer need while I have aught,” he whispered, as he 
and his friend exchanged their last embrace. 

“ I am sure of that. God bless you, my friend. Give 
my love to our little Eglantine, and tell her I often 
thought of her, and prayed for her in my prison.” 

In perfect silence the priest and his companion re- 
traced their steps along corridors and winding stairs, 
back to the fresh air and glory of the upper world. 
But at the door of his own apartment Father Ambrose 
paused and invited his visitor to enter and partake of 
some refreshment. 

M. Laval recoiled in horror. 

“Any bread broken beneath this roof would have 
the taste of blood upon it,” he protested fiercely. 

Father Ambrose drew himself up haughtily. 

“You are less than grateful,” he retorted; “but you 
are mortified at your failure, and I pardon you. You 
see, he closes with his own hand the last door of 
escape.” 

“ Nay, there is one other that will soon open into life 
and freedom — the door that all your popish, bead-tell- 
ing brotherhood cannot keep bolted, when God lays 
His hand upon the latch.” 

“And pray what is that, monsieur? Nay,” as the 
other pointed upward, with gloomy triumph in look 
and gesture. “ That portal scarcely opens heavenward 
for heretics.” 

“We will see.” M. Laval was far too much excited 
to be discreet. “ I would I were as sure of entering 
those blessed gates as he, and the day may come, M. 


AN OPEN DOOR. 


53 


le Cure, when even you may be glad to touch even 
the hem of his garment. You will keep faith about 
the letter?” 

“I keep faith ever,” was the proud retort. 

They had reached the end of the passage, and the 
gateway of the castle. The porter silently withdrew 
the bolts, and Pierre Laval, with a sudden lightening 
of his heart, passed out from under the ponderous 
arch into the freedom and sunshine of the street. 

The gate had scarcely closed behind him when the 
priest turned to a soldier lounging in the court. 

“Did you mark that gentleman, Narcisse, and can 
you follow him unnoticed and bring me word where 
he goes ? ” 

“Without doubt, M. le Cure.” 

“ And keep the word as sacred as the secrets of the 
confessional ? ” 

“ Without doubt again, M. le Cure.” 

“ Then speed you. A louis d’or if you are faithful, 
but a taste of the pulley if I find you blabbing.” 

From which it would seem that Father Ambrose had 
still his little game to play, though it had become 
somewhat involved with events on which he had not 
counted. 


CHAPTER V. 


AN OLD DEBT CANCELLED. 

T here was no hesitation in M. Laval’s step, as he 
threaded his way down the busy boulevard, and 
turning into a side street, entered the house where 
Madame Chevalier and her children had found shel- 
ter. But the moment he met the wife’s desolate eyes 
he knew that the pain of communicating to her that 
terrible doom had been spared him, 

M. La Roche has been here. I know all,” she said 
in answer to his startled look, and the blunt man of 
business forgot the consolations he had meant to ut- 
ter, and silently took a chair, while she drew her weep- 
ing children closer, and her gaze left his to wander 
out once more through the open window, up to the 
frowning towers of St. Esprit, black against the spring 
sky. 

People talk sometimes about “ being prepared ” for 
a great sorrow, as if a blow were less that had added 
to it the slow anguish of anticipation. But how fev; 
seem to have grasped the deep secret, that the only 
preparation possible is that glad, unhesitating acqui- 
escence to a higher and holier will, which should be 
the heart-throb and hand-clasp of every moment of a 
Christian’s life — not merely the convulsive gasp and 
clutch of his soul when he sinks in deep waters. It 
did not lighten the darkness of that hour for Monique 
Chevalier that for years its shadow had been pro- 
jected into her soul, but it did brighten the gloom 
( 54 ) 


an old debt cancelled. 


55 


that she knew whom she had believed, and could rec- 
ognize the sceptre of her King in the wrath of evil 
men. The quiet grief which awed M. Laval more 
than a burst of weeping, was not submission to the 
inevitable, nor the dull patience of a heart grown fa- 
miliar with its pain, but the blessed speechlessness, 
which the harp of the psalmist has embalmed for the 
heart of all time : “ I was dumb ; I opened not my 

mouth, because Thou didst it.” 

“ If I could only see him once more.” The wife 
turned back at last to her visitor with that wistful 
cry. ^‘You have done much for us, M. Laval, very 
much. Could you not obtain for us this one conces- 
sion ? It would mean so little to them ; it would be 
so much to me.” 

M. Laval shaded his eyes with his hand. “ I fear it 
is impossible,” he answered “ And, indeed, it would 
only distress you to see him as he now is. He bade 
me tell you not to attempt it for the children’s sake,” 

“ He himself ? Then you have seen him ? Oh, mon- 
sieur ! ” Madame Chevalier’s hand carried its cup of bit 
terness less steadily for the unexpected drop of balm. 

“ Ay, I have seen him, and had speech with him in 
his dungeon not a half-hour since. Nay, do not look 
like that and clutch at me so fiercely. I will tell you 
all — every look and word. Nay, there was no special 
message to you but that he is to have the privilege of 
writing you himself, and that, I trow, will be more to 
both of you than any message I could bring.” He 
paused, startled, yet relieved to see that the blessed 
tears, which save life and reason, were at last stream- 
ing down her face. 

“Do not mind me,” she said softly. “ It is for joy 
I weep. Go on and tell me all. First, how you could 
procure this boon when it was denied to me.” 


56 ^OlV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 

Somewhat shamefacedly, Pierre Laval explained. 

“ And you dared to go to him with such a proposi- 
tion as that ? ” Godfrey Chevalier’s wife did not ask 
what the result of the mission had been. 

“ It was for his own sake and yours and the chil- 
dren’s. I incurred no small risk in doing it. If you 
cannot thank me, it is hardly generous to reproach. 
He did not.” 

The wife was humbled and penitent at once. 

“ He never did anything that was not noble and 
kind,” she said warmly. “ I am but a child beside 
him ; yet believe me, my friend, I am not ungrateful. 
Now, once more, tell me all.” 

Before M. Laval had quite completed his story he 
was interrupted by a sharp cry. He had averted his 
eyes from her face that he might not witness the pain 
that much of the recital must cause her. Now glanc- 
ing hurriedly at her, he saw her gaze was riveted, not 
on him, but on some object in the doorway. Follow- 
ing the look, he beheld to his horror and consterna- 
tion that the object was no other than his new ac- 
quaintance, Father Ambrose. The priest, seeing he 
was observed, advanced slowly into the apartment, 
addressing no one, but keeping his gaze fixed upon 
the pastor’s wife. Monique Chevalier had uttered no 
second cry, but, motionless in, her chair with Agnes 
folded close to her heart, faced the intruder with eyes 
that seemed to dare the world. As for Pierre Laval, 
the suspicions he had thought forever laid to rest, 
rushed back upon his mind with redoubled strength. 
He had been the dupe, the tool of this wily priest ; 
but it was for Madame Chevalier and her children, 
not for himself, that the trap had been laid. He saw it 
all now only too plainly. Hardly knowing what he did, 
he threw himself in the way of the advancing monk. 


AN OLD DEBT CANCELLED. 


57 


“Traitor! spy!” he hissed. “If you hurt a hair 
of their heads you shall answer for it to me, Church 
or no.” 

The Dominican paused for a moment, and surveyed 
his opponent with a look of quiet scorn, but no ill-will, 
then put him aside with a quiet strength, of which few 
would have thought the slender frame capable. 

“Your tongue will yet get you into trouble, M. 
Laval, in spite of the elasticity of your religious views. 
It is well for you that I bear no resentment.” Then 
turning to Monique Chevalier, he addressed her with 
grave politeness. 

“ I am sorry to have alarmed you, madame. Be- 
lieve me, your alarm is quite unnecessary; my errand 
is one of peace.” 

The Huguenot mother turned a shade paler, but 
made no answer. Yet her heart had already begun 
to relax something of its terrible tension. M. Laval’s 
words had identified their visitor with his new ac- 
quaintance of the morning, and she could not forget 
the kindness shown to her suffering husband. But 
for her children’s sake she must not give her trust too 
soon. 

Evidently disappointed at her silence, the monk 
advanced a step nearer, and pushed back the black 
cowl from his brow. 

“ Madame Chevalier has a bad memory,” he said 
harshly. “ Has she quite forgotten old friends ? Per- 
haps Mademoiselle de Vaux’s memory may be better.” 
He turned, so that the light fell full upon his face. 

“Leon — Leon di Vincy ! ” The name fell from 
Monique Chevalier’s lips like a cry, sharp with sudden 
recognition and a new fear. A bitter smile curved 
the thin lips of the man watching her. 

“Ay, madame, Leon di Vincy, or at least he who 


58 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


once bore that name, the man who once loved you 
with such insane fidelity, who was happy to touch a 
flower that you had worn, and would have risked his 
soul to bring one upon which your, heart was set, but 
who was less to Monique de Vaux than the shadow 
that dogged her steps or the blossom she cast aside. 
The wealth, the station, he laid at your feet, the fame 
he might have won with you for his inspiration, were 
as nothing to you, madame, compared with the hard- 
ships, the poverty that another had to offer. Leon di 
Vincy, the playmate of your childhood, the friend of 
your youth, the lover of your whole life, was forgot- 
ten, cast aside the moment Godfrey Chevalier, the 
heretic, the fanatic, made his appearance. Madame 
Chevalier has probably never regretted her decision ? ” 

“Never, monsieur.” The color had come back to 
Monique’s face. She drew herself up proudly, and 
the flash in her eyes warned the questioner that on 
the shield of her great love and her great sorrow, the 
lava-torrent and the rapier-thrust had both fallen 
powerless. “To have been Godfrey Chevalier’s wife 
for even a few short years is to have known all of bliss 
that earth could give. The memory of it will be to me, 
even in my desolation, a benediction and an inspira- 
tion.” 

The low, sweet passion of her voice trembled into 
silence as if borne down by the weight of its own 
music, but Father Ambrose neither spoke nor moved, 
and in a gentler voice the Huguenot’s wife added: 

“ But my old friend must have strangely changed if 
his mission here to-day is to upbraid me in my sorrow. 
You have reverted, M. le Cure, to circumstances which 
methinks might better have been left where they have 
long lain in oblivion ; but since you have opened the 
door, one word I must speak in mine own behalf. You 


AN OLD DEBT CANCELLED. 


59 


do me but scant justice, sir, when you complain that 
I was incapable of appreciating, because unable to 
accept, the gift you offered me. Only too conscious 
was I even then, I assure you, of the honor you did me, 
and my own unworthiness. Your friend, your sister, 
I would gladly always have remained, had not you 
yourself rendered that impossible.” 

A strange light that could scarcely be called a smile, 
glanced across the white, mask-like face, as the priest 
lifted his head. 

“ Ay, madame. I believe you said something of the 
kind at the time, but I — I was never very gentle or 
docile, as you doubtless remember, and it only mad- 
dened me that you should expect me to feed my 
hunger upon a stone. But as you have done me the 
simple grace to understand, my mission here is not to 
taunt you with your sorrow, nor to reproach you for 
the past. On the contrary, it is to acknowledge, and 
if possible, to repay an old and still uncancelled debt. 
There has been enough of these old reminiscences, you 
think? Pardon me if I recall one more circumstance 
to your memory. You have doubtless forgotten, but 
I shall ever blush to remember, that at the climax of 
my infatuation, when for one mad hour I dreamed that 
only the difference in our faith stood between us, I 
offered to perjure my soul and annihilate the barrier 
by embracing the errors to which I knew you were 
irrevocably attached. You should teach me, guide me, 
make a heretic of me if you liked. Your smile, your 
love was all the religion that I asked. The offer had, 
perhaps, for one of your temperament, greater tempta 
tion than the idle triumph of holding a lover in fetters 
at your feet. But however that may have been, you 
showed no doubt, no hesitation. Young as you were, 
you had the nobility to reject, and the courage to re- 


6o 


HOU^ THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


buke, the blasphemous proposition, the moment that 
it was uttered. You told me I would forfeit not only 
your friendship, but your esteem, if for the love of any 
less than God I should forsake the faith I had learned 
at my mother’s knee. Ay, and you told me also, 
madame, that the empty profession which was all I 
proposed — all, indeed, that I had to offer, — would be 
a stain upon my knighthood and a lie to God and man. 
It was a sharp and wholesome lesson. I did not thank 
you for it then, nor for many a month and year that 
followed, but I have learned to do so now — not, Mon- 
ique, as I would thank one who had snatched me from 
the brink of the grave and saved to me this fleeting, 
miserable existence, but as I would, upon my bended 
knees, thank one who had interposed between me and 
a blacker pit, and preserved to me that possession 
which alone is worth preserving— the life eternal. 
Madame, three days after you left your father’s house 
a joyous bride, I also bade farewell to the scenes of 
our childhood and entered upon a religious life, seek- 
ing to propitiate my offended God by sacrificing upon 
His altar the aspirations and affections I had hitherto 
laid at a human shrine, and endeavoring to efface by a 
life of self-denial and discipline the blackness of that 
moment’s sin. If in the last great day I shall be found 
in any measure to have succeeded, it will be to the 
praise of her who withheld the mad, headstrong boy 
from that act of awful impiety and restored him to his 
better self. It is for this that I have permitted myself 
to retain the remembrance of you, when that remem- 
brance might otherwise have been a trespass against 
my vows ; for this that I have wearied God day and 
night with my prayers, and racked my body with pen- 
ances and tortures, that I might lay up treasure on 
high in your behalf, and win from heaven this boon, 


AN OLD DEBT CANCELLED. 


6i 


that she, who had saved another from the gulf of 
eternal death, should not herself prove a cast-away.” 

The whole appearance of the man had altered as he 
spoke. His look had become rapt, and his glowing 
features no longer hid the warm soul within. Mon- 
ique Chevalier looked up wistfully, large tears stand- 
ing in her eyes. 

“You had ever a generous, noble heart, Leon,” she 
said gently. “ But I have often questioned with myself 
whether on that occasion I did my full duty — if, in re- 
jecting the hollow profession, I did not leave somewhat 
untried of what I might have accomplished in win- 
ning you to true and earnest belief on what I know 
to be the real ground of safety. Tell me, my old 
friend, does this religion, which you are so grateful to 
me for preserving to you, wholly cleanse your con- 
science and satisfy your heart ? ” 

She had gone too far. Father Ambrose’s manner 
instantly changed, and the hard, vizor-like look closed 
down once more upon his face. 

“There spoke the wife of Godfrey Chevalier, the 
heretic, the fanatic,” he said harshly. “ Not my old 
friend. Mademoiselle de Vaux. Thank God she had 
no such scruples, and the work wrought that day was 
too well done ever to be effaced. I am as little likely 
now, madame, to change my faith as your husband to 
forsake the heresies he seems to find sweeter than the 
love of wife and child. But I have already overstayed 
my time, and my errand is yet undone. It has not 
been in my power to help or hinder your husband’s 
fate, only to render, for your sake, the few small kind- 
nesses that came within my province. How few and 
how slight. M. Laval has doubtless already informed 
you ; but I am now able, with your assistance, to add 
to these services the one earthly consolation he himself 


62 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


acknowledges that can be ministered to him in his ■ 
suffering. If you and M. Laval will meet me in the 
chapel next the fortress after vespers this evening, I 
will conduct you privately to your husband’s cell, and 
grant you an hour’s uninterrupted intercourse with 
him. What, madame ! You hesitate — you refuse ? ” 
he asked sharply, as the pastor’s wife, after the first 
joyous start, cast down her eyes and remained silent. 

“I am fettered by his command,” she faltered. 

“Nay, my good woman, that was but spoken of the 
formal application to the authorities,” interposed M. 
Laval, stepping eagerly forward. 

“And he himself knows of this and approves,” 
added Father Ambrose. Then, as she still hesitated, 
looking at her children, he turned proudly away, the 
flush that mounted to his brow betraying only too 
plainly that the blood of the knight still flowed fast 
and warm in the veins of the priest. 

“ It is enough — you distrust me ! I disdain to con- 
vince you of my sincerity. Leon di Vincy offers you 
no pledge but his word.” 

“ And I am satisfied,” answered Monique, detaining 
him with a tremulous touch upon his arm. “ Have 
patience with me, M. le Cure, and make allowance for 
the mother’s heart. It is for my children that I hesi- 
tate. Tell me, will they remain unmolested in my ab- 
sence, and v/ill I after this hour’s interview be allowed 
to return to them unhindered ? If my old friend will 
assure me of this, I will keep the tryst gratefully and 
without the shadow of a doubt.” 

Instead of answering, Father Ambrose turned and 
gazed intently, and for the first time, upon the two 
children — on the lad, standing pale but brave-eyed and 
resolute, with his hand on his mother’s shoulder, and 
little Agnes, cowering frightened in her arms. 


AN OLD DEBT CANCELLED. 


63 


“ Strange ! ” he muttered, “ but I never thought of 
this before. Is it a temptation or a revelation ? There 
are those, madame, who would think me rarely quit 
of my obligation to you could I set over against my 
own salvation the eternal safety of the two you hold 
dearer than life. And yet, I may be criminally weak ; 
but I cannot find it in my heart to take from you one 
thread of those golden curls. There is no need to 
fold her to your breast so closely. Monique de Vaux’s 
children have naught to fear from me. If I seek to 
ensnare their young souls for heaven, it shall be with 
the invisible, but mayhap more potent net of my tears 
and prayers. But there are others who will be less 
scrupulous. Take a friend’s warning, and after to- 
night leave Nismes as soon as possible. I chance to 
know that your presence in the town is not wholly 
unsuspected, and that immediately after your hus- 
band’s removal, a stricter search wdll be made for his 
family. As for to-night, I can but give you my word 
that I know of no attempt that will be made upon 
your children in your absence. Let your friends 
see to it that they are as well guarded as usual, and 
they are safe enough. As to your own safe return, 
upon that I wiH pledge my honor as a French gentle- 
man.” 

‘‘ Then I will keep the tryst,” said Monique Cheva- 
lier, holding out her hand. “I well know it is to 
look upon my husband’s face for the last time, not to 
bid him farewell, as his enemies imagine, to a long 
and painful captivity. The galleys, to a frame broken 
and wrenched asunder by the rack, means sure, though 
lingering death, and death to Godfrey Chevalier is 
but another name for freedom, and victory, and eter- 
nal i^fe.” 

While there is life there is hope,” said Father Am- 


64 


mw THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


brose huskily. “ You overestimate the extent of your 
husband’s doom. Although immediately removed 
from Nismes, believe me, M. Chevalier will not be 
placed in the galleys until he has fully recovered from 
his injuries. In the prison of Tournay I can procure 
for him many indulgences impossible here, the pro- 
vost being my near kinsman. And even in the galleys 
there is always the hope of a pardon or an escape. 
The king’s mind or M. Chevalier’s temper may change. 
But if I tarry here much longer I will draw down upon 
you the attention you most dread. Adieu, madame ; 1 
go to inform M. Chevalier that he may expect you 
without fail.” 

He beckoned Pierre Laval to follow^ him out into 
the corridor. 

“ Heed what I have said to Madame Chevalier,” he 
whispered. “ The danger is more imminent than I 
have dared to intimate to her. The sentence that 
dooms the pastor to the galleys, consigns his wife and 
children to the convent and the cloister. Farewell ; 
you are warned.” 

At the head of the stair he turned back once more. 

“ Monsieur, your interest in the foster-child of the 
Chevaliers has been marked. Beware how you be- 
tray Mademoiselle Bertrand’s secret. Nay,” as the 
banker started and turned pale, “ I have had superior 
means of ascertaining all that has passed in the pastor’s 
household ; the mystery remains unsolved by others. 
Only remember that the young girl at La Rochelle will 
attract more attention than the child in the Cevennes.” 
He waved his hand in token of farewell, and silently 
as he had come, glided down into the street. 

M. Laval re-entered the salon. 

“How soon can you be ready to leave Nismes, 
madame?” 


AN OLD DEBT CANCELLED, 


65 


‘^To-night, if necessary. When I have seen my 
husband’s face once more, there is nothing to de- 
tain us.” 

“ Then, if that priest’s words mean anything, an- 
other sunrise should not find you here. Have you de- 
cided upon your place of refuge ? ” 

“We have lived too long upon the sides of a vol- 
cano not to have taken thought for that, monsieur, 
and the sieur La Roche has completed what my hus- 
band began. Friends in Montauban await us, An- 
toine accompanies us, and a hundred hearts and doors 
upon the way will open to us for Godfrey Chevalier’s 
sake.” 

“ Then I will seek Antoine at once, and put that in 
his purse which will speed you on your way. Nay, this 
you shall not refuse me ; I can be obstinate too. 
Have I not promised Godfrey to see that you lack for 
naught, and do I not owe it to you for Eglantine’s 
sake ? ” 

But though M, Laval uttered the name of his grand- 
daughter with emotion, for some reason best known 
to himself he made no allusion to Father Ambrose’s 
second warning. 

The bright hours of the spring day wore away, 
hardly more slowly to the prisoner in his dungeon 
than to the wife without ; but at last twilight fell ; the 
vesper-bells answered each other through the gloom 
and ceased : the throbbing heart of the city grew still. 
The Huguenot pastor lay upon his iron bed, and lis- 
tened with an agony of intentness for any sound 
in the corridor without. He had no means of pre- 
cisely ascertaining the hour, but by certain little de- 
vices with which he had contrived to portion out his 
hours of darkness, he knew that the trysting-time had 
long since passed. The footsteps of the sentinel, 


66 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


usually on duty outside his cell, had ceased for many 
minutes, and the silence, like the darkness at the first, 
began to press heavily upon heart and brain like a 
thing that might be felt. For the first time his heart 
began to sicken with a dark and terrible dread. 
Could it after all be a trap, in spite of the priest’s 
honest look and solemn asseveration ? Were Monique 
and his children to be ensnared in the net of his great 
love for them ? Bitterly he regretted the now irre- 
trievable step, and reproached himself for the selfish- 
ness which had made him yield to the temptation. 
But the fear was short-lived. Swift as a needle to the 
pole, straight as a hurt child to its mother’s breast, his 
soul sought the covert which had sheltered him from 
many another “ windy storm and tempest,” and a great 
cry went up from the depths of his troubled soul to 
the God who ‘‘ remembers His covenant forever, the 
word that He has spoken to a thousand generations.” 

“ They are Thine: save them. I have entrusted them 
to Thee. Keep that which I have committed unto Thee. 
Oh, Lion of the tribe of Judah, let none pluck them out 
of Thy hand ! ” 

Hark ! What was that ? Steps, voices ? or only the 
noisy beating of his own heart and the sighing of the 
wind down the vaulted corridor ? The heavily-barred 
door of the dungeon still stood fast and close, but a 
faint light began to palpitate against the low, murky 
walls, and across the black pools of water standing on 
the dungeon floor. Hurriedly he glanced toward the 
side from which the light seemed to issue. A narrow 
door at the farther corner of his cell stood open, and a 
taper, held by some unseen hand, revealed the stone 
passage and spiral staircase without. What did it all 
mean ? Could some new torture, some fresh assault 
upon his constancy await him ? Ah, who was that com- 


AN OLD DEBT CANCELLED. 


6 ; 


ing toward him with a light in her eyes and a haste in 
her feet, more beautiful than when she kept the tryst 
in the days of their first love under the elms at Pau ? 

“ Monique ! Monique ! ” 

The glad cry rang out on the silence of that dreary 
dungeon with something of the strength of his old 
days of freedom and of health. Godfrey Chevalier did 
not see the man hovering in the shadow of the door- 
way, who put down his light and fled precipitately at 
the sound of that cry. He saw and felt nothing but 
the woman kneeling beside his bed and raining down 
upon his fevered brow and fettered hands kisses fresh 
and sweet as the dew upon the hills he would never 
tread again. Bright grew the gloom around him with 
a light “ that never shone on land or sea ” — the quench- 
less light of faithful human love — brighter still, with 
the radiance of that faith which “shineth more and 
more unto the perfect day.” 

‘‘ God has been better to me than my fears,” faltered 
the lips that a few short hours before had confounded 
priest and jailer with their bold and burning elo- 
quence. 

“ He has given me the one thing that I asked of 
Him whispered Monique Chevalier, with her head 
pillowed on her husband’s breast. 

Surely goodness and mercy have followed us all 
the days of our life,” his heart answered back. 

It was an hour that had in it the supreme anguish 
and the sublime consolations of death. Let a reverent 
curtain veil the joy and pain with which a stranger 
may not intermeddle. Love hath its Gethsemanes 
when the soul lies upon its face and the frail goblet 
trembles beneath the weight poured into it, and the 
separating sword pierces even to the dividing asunder 
oil soul and spirit but it has also its mounts of trans- 


68 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


figuration, when the world slips away and the night 
grows glorious, and the hidden splendor flashes out 
through the earthly vestments and the countenance of 
our sorrow is changed, and we hear voices from heaven 
and see our lives in the light of a better world. 

When, a little after the hour named, Father Ambrose 
tapped upon the door and intimated to the pastor’s 
wife that her time had expired, Monique came forth 
to meet her old friend with a face white and shining, 
as though she had been kneeling on the threshold of 
heaven instead of beside an opening grave. To the man 
— toiling but never achieving,' — to whom human love 
was a sin, and joy a forgotten good, and peace an unat- 
tainable height, — the look was a revelation, a new gospel. 
It may be that that night he saw it only “ as it had been 
the face of an angel,” but in after-years he would under- 
stand it better as the face of a sorrow God had comfort- 
ed. No word passed between them as he led her back 
through the dreary labyrinth of vaults and passages by 
which they had come to the little chapel confessional, 
where M. Laval, pale and anxious, awaited their arrival. 

“Madame, I have redeemed my pledge,” he said, as 
he laid her hand on the banker’s arm, and before she 
could cast about in her mind for words with which to ac- 
knowledge a gift so unspeakable, he had vanished from 
her sight and from her life as suddenly as he had come. 

The spring night wore away ; the stars came out 
and filled the purple spaces of the sky; the city slum- 
bered on. Only the hills that watched afar, and the 
eyes that never “ slumber nor sleep,” saw the little band 
of travellers creep out from under the city walls and 
hurry northward along the river banks. Long before 
the first streak of rose showed itself in the eastern sky, 
the pastor, closely guarded, was on his way to Toulouse, 
and his wife and children had reached a place of safety, 


CHAPTER VI. 


A GAME OF SKILL. 

I T was near the close of a summer day in the year 
1683. In a small, but elegantly-furnished salon 
overlooking one of the boulevards of the old city of 
La Rochelle, two gentlemen sat at a gaming-table. 
One of them wore the black cap and gown of a candi- 
date for priest’s orders ; the other, the elaborate at- 
tire of a French courtier. The former was still young, 
and his features had a boyish comeliness, though ex- 
pressive of little more than good living and good 
temper. The countenance of his companion, though 
marked by the fine lines of fully twice as many years, 
was Grecian in contour, and had the soft coloring of 
a painting on ivory — the impassiveness also, for after 
one had watched it awhile, it seemed rather a mask 
behind which the wearer concealed himself, than a 
part of the man’s living personality. Only the eyes, 
keen, furtive, black as night, seemed alive, and these 
gleamed with secret triumph, as for the third time that 
afternoon his delicate jewelled hand swept the contents 
of the pool toward his side of the table. 

“ Pardon, my young friend ; luck seems to be 
against you to-day. But you shall have the oppor- 
tunity to win it all back. It is the game, not the 
stakes, that I care for. The game amuses me, and to 
be amused is to live.” 

His discomfited antagonist did not answer. He 

(69) 


70 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


had evidently some suspicion of sharp dealing, which 
his native politeness and good-temper prevented him 
from uttering. Dubiously he had begun to shuffle the 
cards for a second deal, when the door of an inner 
apartment opened, and a young man, wearing the uni- 
form of a French officer, sauntered in. His step, though 
martial in its gait, was languid. He carried his right 
arm in a sling, and a certain wanness was discernible 
through the bronzed tint of his cheek. In person he 
was tall and graceful, with a distinguished air. His 
eyes were dark and full of slumbering fire, but wore 
a listless, melancholy expression. His bold, handsome 
features formed a striking contrast to the feminine 
beauty of one of the faces turned toward him, and the 
pink and white freshness of the other. 

The young abbe greeted him joyfully. 

“Ah, here comes our handsome young captain. 
Take a hand at the game, monsieur, and assist me to 
my revenge upon your kinsman. Rumor says you are 
as invincible at the gaming-table as on the battle- 
field.” 

The young officer bowed courteously. 

“ I must beg M. TAbbe to excuse me this afternoon,” 
he said coldly. 

The newly-fledged graduate of the Sorbonne elevated 
his eyebrows interrogatively, and then dropped them 
with a good-humored laugh. 

“ I see. It is Sunday, and you are still a Huguenot. 
Pardon ; I had no idea M. le Capitaine carried his re- 
ligious prejudices so far. But take the advice of a 
well-wisher monsieur. Prejudices are uncomfortable 
things ; sometimes they are dangerous.” 

“ Danger is hardly the cry with which to frighten off 
a French soldier,” retorted the other with a curling lip. 
“ As for the rest. M. I’Abbe, I have not been five years 


A GAME OF SKILL. 


71 


in the king’s service, and seen all my claims to dis- 
tinction passed by because of my creed, without dis- 
covering for myself that the faith of my fathers is a 
costly heritage.” 

“ Back to the old grievance, Henri ? Whatever path 
you take, you always come home on that.” 

It was the elderly gentleman in the court-dress who 
spoke. His voice was like his face, cold and passion- 
less. He had been regarding the young man, from the 
moment of his entrance, with quiet attention. The ob- 
ject of his scrutiny turned upon him fiercely. 

“ Can you deny it, sir ? Will my cousin undertake to 
say that if I had been of his majesty’s religion, my 
services to the State would have remained so long un- 
acknowledged ? ” 

Certainly not : I predicted as much to your father 
years ago; I have warned you repeatedly since. To 
remain outside the king’s religion is to remain be- 
yond the pale of royal favor.” 

“ Is that just ? Is it statesmanlike ? ” 

“ A wise man will accommodate himself to the world 
as he finds it ; a loyal subject will not call in question 
the justice of his sovereign.” 

The soldier laid his hand upon his sword. 

“I did not impugn the justice of the king, and I will 
suffer no man to call in question my loyalty, not even 
you, cousin Claude. There are those about the king, 
who take good care to keep him in ignorance, that 
they may regulate public patronage to suit themselves. 
It is a well-understood fact that his majesty is con- 
tinually deceived, not only as to the disposition of his 
Protestant subjects, but also as to their suffering un- 
der the edicts.” 

“It is a fact less understood in Paris than in the 
provinces,” returned the courtier sarcastically. “ Take 


72 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


my advice, my kinsman, and do not hug the delusion 
of the king’s ignorance too fondly to your heart. 
There was one man, who had the hardihood, or the 
courage, — which you will, — to represent to his majesty 
the value to France of the heretic vine-dressers and 
silk-weavers. His remonstrances have perhaps done 
something to delay the inevitable destruction, but the 
result to himself will hardly inspire others to emulate 
his example.” 

“ You refer to our noble kinsman. Minister Colbert ? ” 

“ I do. You know the result. He is dead — worn out 
by fruitless endeavors to prevent the demands of the 
royal exchequer from increasing the burdens of the 
people — and buried by night to escape the fury of the 
mob — unmourned by his sovereign, and bitterly exe- 
crated by the people for whom he had sacrificed him- 
self. Small encouragement for his successor to follow 
in his steps, even were he so disposed. But M. Lou- 
vois is cast in a different mould. There is little love 
lost, it is said, between himself and the widow Scar- 
ron, but in one enterprise, at least, you may be sure 
they will join hands — the extirpation of heresy.” 

The cheek of the Huguenot flushed darkly, and his 
hand moved instinctively to a small jewelled ornament 
suspended by a chain about his throat, and bearing 
the historic legend of his race — a cluster of roses and 
pansies set in a circlet of wheat-ears. 

“ There is a seed which springs the faster the more 
it is trampled on,” he said significantly. 

The Parisian shrugged his shoulders. 

‘‘ Charming, as a figure of speech, my cousin ; but 
worth nothing, you will find, when the royal plough- 
share is put to the field. Even were the king himself 
less resolved upon the conversion of his Huguenot sub- 
jects, the wddow Scarron gains in influence every day, 


A GAME OF SKILL. 


73 

and the darling desire of her heart, is — the revocation 
of the Edict’of Nantes.” 

In that she will never succeed. The king is bound 
to preserve our liberties, bound by his plighted word.” 

M. Renan smiled. 

“Have you little more than the name of them left 
now ? ” he asked. 

“ Nay,” as the quick scarlet leaped once more into 
the swarthy cheek. “ I meant not to anger you, Henri, 
only to prove how little the Huguenots of France have 
to hope for from their king. Hear me a moment. You 
have not the religious attachments of your father, and 
theology is not your forte. For the few prayers you 
will say in the course of a year, why will not one 
church do you as well as another?” 

The officer turned toward the door. 

“I have already forbidden that subject,” he said 
sternly. “ I may be a heathen, cousin Claude : I will 
never be a papist. If I cannot reflect glory upon my 
father’s name, I will not dishonor it.” 

“Silly boy. You will talk heroics when I am deal- 
ing with common sense. But it was the cards after 
all, not creeds, that were under discussion. Come, 
Henri, and take a hand at the game, and let us hear 
no more of these scruples about the day, which seem 
to have come across you suddenly since we crossed the 
Spanish border. If my memory serves me right, you 
showed little hesitation last winter in taking a seat at 
the roulette-table, Sunday, or any other day. Your 
refusal, too, is a reflection on our friend, the abbe 
here.” 

The good-humored young priest looked around 
from the window to which he had discreetly retired. 

“ Having satisfied my own conscience with my morn- 
ing’s devotions, I am indifferent to the censure of 


74 


//OlV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


another,” he said smiling. “ Captain La Roche is under 
no obligations to remain for my sake.” 

Captain La Roche regarded him fixedly, and then, 
disarmed by the downright kindliness of his glance, 
smiled also. 

“Your amiability forces me to a confession, monsieur. 
It is not so much the day, as a previous engagement, 
that compels me to decline your invitation. I am at 
your service any time this evening.” 

He turned once more to the door, but before he 
could lay his hand upon the latch, M. Renau asked 
quietly: 

“ Whither now, Henri ? ” 

“ To the preaching in the Huguenot temple.” The 
young man turned and faced his kinsman with a look 
which said plainly: “ I am not to be laughed out of it.” 

The elder man threw up his hands with a whimsical 
gesture of dismay. 

“You will be haranguing a preche in the desert 
next. What new spell is on you, mon ami?” 

“ The spell that controls the actions of most men — 
a pair of handsome eyes, I fancy,” the young abbe 
interposed, with a roguish twinkle in his eye. “Cap- 
tain La Roche has probably found out, as I have, that 
his lovely inamorata attends service in the Huguenot 
temple every Sabbath afternoon.” 

Captain La Roche would evidently have denied it if 
he could, but there was no hiding the “ light of sudden 
laughter” that “ dimpled in his swarthy cheek.” 

“You appear to be well acquainted with her move- 
ments, M. I’Abbe.” 

“ I use my eyes and ears, as others do, M. le Capi- 
taine.” 

The soldier laughed merrily. 

“ Then you are probably also av/are that I have no 


A GAME OF SKILL. 


time to lose if I would not be late for service. Cousin 
Renau, I see you are reassured since you find that the 
spell that draws me is of ‘the earth, earthy.’ Au re- 
voir, gentlemen. I give you good luck at your game.” 

The door closed behind him, and the two, left alone, 
looked at each other and smiled. 

“ Is it the game or the stakes that most interests 
you now, monsieur?” inquired the priest. 

“The game still, though the stakes are certainly worth 
playing for. It is to my interest to keep the lands of 
Beaumont free from encumbrance, and to do this Henri 
must marry wealth. His father has seriously embar- 
rassed his property by the fines which he has incurred 
through his devotion to the Reformed Church, and 
mademoiselle, as I understand, will inherit large es- 
tates at her marriage.” 

“ So madame has repeatedly whispered to Natalie 
and myself. She has even gone so far as to intimate 
to my sister that M. Laval is likely to make his pretty 
young ward his heir. But that is under the rose. He 
certainly dotes upon her. But it is not clear to my 
mind, monsieur, how this golden draught is to be drawn 
into the net of the Church. Captain La Roche appears 
devoted to his faith.” 

“ As he would be to a hardly-pressed banner or a los- 
ing cause in a fight. It is the reckless chivalry of 
youth, Louis, not the stubborn fanaticism of his' 
father — a much harder thing to fight, I assure you. 
My kinsman would never consent to the marriage of 
his son with a Catholic, and I can but congratulate 
myself that the fair Huguenot who has enslaved our 
hitherto invincible soldier, is not one of the psalm- 
singing, puritanical kind, but a giddy butterfly, eager 
to wander from flower to flower, for whom the world 
and its pleasures have endless attractions. Let me 


76 


HOJV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


but plunge the two into the whirl and glitter of court 
life, and bring my cousin under the personal fascina- 
tion of the king, and we will find these hereditary 
scruples melt like wax in the fire. Hearts can be taken 
by stratagem, mon ami, that can never be stormed.” 

“Then your game is already assured, monsieur. 
The young captain gives every evidence of la grande 
passion ” 

“ He is bewitched by a pair of handsome eyes, un- 
doubtedly ; but it is on that point I feel most uneasi- 
ness. Let Henri discover too soon the identity of his 
fair unknown with the betrothed of his friend and our 
scheme miscarries at once.” 

“ But I understand from madame, the aunt, that the 
betrothal is not a formal one, only a family under- 
standing.” 

“ All the more binding on one of Henri’s tempera- 
ment. His honor is his religion. If he learns the 
truth before he is thoroughly enslaved, our game is 
ip. Are you sure madame can be depended on ? ” 

“ Madame is in raptures at the prospect of such a 
orilliant alliance for her young kinswoman. She will 
hold her tongue, I promise you.” 

“ That is well. But how about the old nurse ? Is 
she still laid up ? She would prove a sad marplot 
just now.” 

“ She still keeps her room, monsieur, and is likely 
to do so for some time, from all I can gather. It is 
madame’s own maid who accompanies mademoiselle 
in her walks.” 

“Very good once more. Now let us have our 
game.” 

There was silence while the cards were dealt, and 
then the abbe glanced up once more. 

“ You appear to have overlooked one possibility 


A GAME OF SKILL. 


77 

monsieur. Suppose the young lady herself proves 
unmanageable ? ” 

M. Renau compressed his thin lips in a way that 
was not pleasant to see. 

“ The young lady has nothing to do with it. She 
will marry as her elders think best.” 

“ On the contrary, monsieur ; there is some preju- 
dice in the family against a marriage de convenance. 
Madame assures me that the young lady’s inclination 
will be the bar after all that will decide the question.” 

“ Be it so. Is my cousin a man likely to woo un- 
heard ? ” 

“ But there may be a previous attachment. Ma- 
dame admits she had much ado to comfort the little 
demoiselle for her separation from the Chevaliers at 
the first, and that her foster-brother’s name was on her 
lips even in her sleep.” 

That was five years ago, and they were both chil- 
dren. Madame has done her work ill if the girl hesi- 
tates between reigning as the mistress of Beaumont 
or leading an obscure, perilous existence as the wife 
of a Huguenot physician. I believe it was to that the 
boy aspired. You appear to overlook, Louis, that the 
proffer of my cousin’s hand is an honor for which ma- 
demoiselle, in her position, could not have looked.” 

“ I do not, monsieur, and that brings me to my last 
misgiving. The sieur La Roche — how is he likely to 
regard the match ? Will the mysterious hints which 
madame doles out to us of the young lady’s gentle 
birth and high connections satisfy his aristocratic de- 
mands for his only son ? ” 

“ I would I were as sure of the cut of my new cloak, 
mon ami. My kinsman, I happen to know, is as well 
acquainted with mademoiselle’s lineage as madame 
herself, and a chance word of Henri’s years ago be- 


78 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


trayed to me that the silence was a matter of religious 
policy. When our pretty little demoiselle is once 
united to a Huguenot husband able to protect her, I 
fancy there will be no longer any need for secrecy. 
But even were it otherwise, I believe it would suffice 
M. La Roche that the girl is the foster-child of the 
Chevaliers, whom he seems to think have had a pa- 
tent of nobility straight from Heaven.” 

The abbe lifted his eyebrows. “ I see you have 
thought of everything, monsieur. Your position seems 
impregnable, and I am your most obedient servant 
henceforth.” 

They resumed their cards, and silence once more 
fell upon them. 

In a beautiful grove of elms about a quarter of a 
mile southeast of the old city, stood the large stone 
structure to which the Huguenots had long been ac- 
customed to resort for public worship. 

For many years the Protestants of France had only 
been suffered by their Catholic rulers to erect their 
temples outside the corporate limits of a town; but in 
the present instance, the love and industry of the wor- 
shippers had done much to soften the disadvantage. 
The church itself was built on the slope of a gentle 
hill, commanding a fine view of the town and a glimpse 
of the distant sea. The road thither was paved with 
stones, worn smooth by the going and coming feet of 
many generations, and bordered on either side by 
stately chestnut-trees. The edifice, though as scru- 
pulously devoid of ornament as the worship within, 
was, like it, not without a grand and simple beauty, and 
the hoary lichens and trailing vines with which time 
had mantled it, softened the asperity of its rigid out- 
lines. The service was just beginning, when Henri 


A GAME OF SKILL. 


79 


La Roche, after a hurried walk, mounted the steps, and 
the stately old beadle, who stood on the threshold 
holding the ponderous staff of his office, advanced, with 
as much haste as his dignity would permit, to show the 
young officer to a place. That young gentleman, how- 
ever, intimated by a gesture that he was not yet ready 
to enter. His quick glance had caught sight of two 
figures coming up the avenue : one of them, a slen- 
der girl dressed in simple white, with her head set 
daintily on her small throat, like a young queen’s, and 
a step as light and quick as a breeze when it pricks 
its way across a summer sea. His heart began to 
tremble like a leaf. He drew back hastily into the 
shadow of the entrance and waited, smiling at his own 
folly, yet unable to resist the spell that was on him. T wo 
weeks before, chancing to go out early one morning, 
and turning a corner hastily, he had jostled against a 
young girl coming from the opposite direction. The 
collision sent the basket of roses she had been carry- 
ing tumbling to the ground. He had only time to 
catch sight of a small, rosy mouth, pouted like a bud, 
as he stooped in confusion to gather them up. In a 
moment they were replaced in the basket, and the bas- 
ket in the hand outstretched to receive it — a pretty 
hand, white as snow and dimpled like a child’s, 
thousand pardons, mademoiselle.” 
thousand thanks, monsieur.” 

The next moment she had passed on her way, fol- 
lowed by her chattering maid. But was it accident 
or fate, or something sweeter still, that left one of 
those crimson roses lying on the stones at his feet ? 
He snatched it up and went home with his brain in a 
whirl. There are natures to which love at first sight 
is impossible, but his was not one of them. He did 
not try to analyze his feelings, — introspection was not 


8o 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


one of his characteristics; but all that day those merry 
eyes looked at him from every book and picture, and 
at night followed him into his dreams, and made his 
blood tingle. Other eyes he had seen, bright and sweet 
— eyes that had graciously smiled upon him and wooed 
him shyly, and into which he had thought it pleasant 
to look for an hour, but none that had ever haunted 
his solitude like these. Early the next morning he was 
out on the boulevard once more, pacing slowly up and 
down, with a red rose fastened in his coat. His vigil 
was soon rewarded. Afar off he saw her coming ; his 
heart already singling her out in the crowd with a 
sense of passionate proprietorship. 

She walked slowly, as if unconscious of his scrutiny, 
with her pretty head held proudly, and her eyes fixed 
upon the ground — the tender curves of childhood yet 
lingering about lip and chin, but the light of a sweeter 
morning breaking from under the downcast lids. He 
had time to study the picture for a moment, and then 
the maid, a sharp-eyed, flashily-dressed woman, whis- 
pered in her mistress’ ear. The young girl glanced 
toward him, and catching sight of the flower in his 
doublet, flushed, and turned away. Every morning 
since had found him on the boulevard, fully satisfied, 
if after an hour or two of loitering, that face went by 
him in the crowd, and irrationally jealous if other eyes 
than his seemed to see that it was fair. Before a week 
had gone, the whole twenty-four hours came to turn 
on the brief bliss of that instant — the light of the day 
to come and go in the passing of those radiant eyes. 
Though after that second day she had never looked 
again in his direction, he liked her none the less for 
that touch of maidenly dignity. It proved her gentle 
breeding, as her dress and attendant did her gentle 
station. And now he stood waiting in the shadow of 


A GAME OF SKILL. 


8 


the old church, with a flutter at his heart, to see her 
pass. He had not thought to be himself observed, but 
as if attracted by the earnest gaze bent on her, the 
young lady looked up as she mounted the steps. 
There was no mistaking the warm admiration of his 
glance, and in some confusion, mademoiselle let slip 
the little volume she carried in her hand. Before the 
maid could interpose. Captain La Roche had stepped 
forward and restored it, with uncovered head. The 
stranger murmured a word of thanks, and would have 
passed on, but he glanced again at the steps. A little 
field-flower which she had plucked by the w^ay had 
fallen from the leaves of the book, and lay on the 
stones at her feet. Henri picked it up, but made no 
offer to return it. A spirit of audacity seized him. His 
eyes preferred the request his lips dared not utter. The 
girl hesitated only a moment, and then, with the air of 
a young princess granting a favor, she smiled, and 
tripped by into the church, leaving the soldier stand- 
ing still on the steps, with the fading little marigold 
in his hand; and from that hour roses and marigolds 
were to Henri La Roche the flowers most akin to those 
that blossomed in Paradise. 

Like one in a dream he followed her into the church, 
and took his stand in the shadow of a pillar, where he 
could watch her without observation. The audience- 
room, which he had entered in this light and careless 
mood, was a large one, but quite devoid of furniture, 
saving the high, steep pulpit at the upper end, and a 
few old hatchments on the walls. It -was the policy of 
the Catholic authorities, before resorting to actual 
persecution, to render Protestant worship unpopular 
by the imposition of petty tyrannies. Accordingly, a 
royal edict had lately deprived Huguenot temples of 
the right to furnish seats to their worshippers, compel- 


82 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


ling the latter to absent themselves from public wor- 
ship, or to remain standing throughout services which 
a modern audience would have regarded as intermina- 
ble. The effort had failed in the present instance, for 
the large building was crowded to its utmost capacity 
with both men and women, and there was no sign of 
weariness or inattention as the venerable, white-haired 
pastor invoked the blessing of God upon the assembly, 
and read from the book open before him, a chapter of 
St. John’s Gospel. Then followed the simple liturgy, 
in which lay crystallized the faith of the reformers and 
the memory of martyrs. 

An awe he had not looked for fell upon the young 
soldier, as for the first time in many months he lis- 
tened to the familiar words. His eyes grew moist and 
his heart tender as he recalled the days of his youth 
and the voice — long since silent — that at such bitter 
price to itself had so often in his hearing repeated 
those solemn and sacred truths. Years had passed 
since then, but he could still never recall the memory 
of his martyred pastor without a pang of fierce indig- 
nation, and it suited well with his mood, that the 
psalm lined out to the waiting people — for books were 
also now forbidden to Protestant worshippers — was 
one of the battle-songs with which his forefathers had 
struck hard blows for the truth. The audience took 
it up as with one voice, and he joined in the strain 
with all the heartiness of his young, powerful lungs. 
He had almost forgotten the lovely spell that had 
drawn him thither, when his ear caught the sound of a 
silvery voice on the other side of the pillar, pealing up 
like a skylark’s. The face of the stranger was uplifted, 
and glowing as if with inspiration. So might Miriam 
have looked, he thought, chanting a psean over the 
downfall of the enemies of her people; and after that, 


A GAME OF SKILL. 83 

it is to be confessed, he thought quite as much of the 
singer as of the strain. 

The psalm ended, the old pastor reopened the Bible 
and announced his text, but scarcely had the first 
sentence fallen from his lips, when he was suddenly 
interrupted. A trumpet blew sharp and shrill with- 
out. A strain of martial music followed. There was 
a faint cry from the old beadle, and then the temple 
doors were thrown open, and a band of soldiers, armed 
to the teeth, marched in. For an instant the congrega- 
tion stood paralyzed; then seeing that the eyes of the 
intruders were fixed upon the pulpit, where their aged 
minister stood calm, but unable to make himself heard 
amid the uproar, they uttered a hoarse roar of indig- 
nation, and endeavored, with the desperation of love, 
to interpose between him and the threatened danger. 
In vain. The dragoons pushed steadily forward, forc- 
ing the people back at the point of the bayonet, and 
bearing with stoical indifference the threats and exe- 
crations hurled upon them. They gained the pulpit 
and formed a cordon round it. Two of their number 
mounted to the reading-desk and secured the person 
of the pastor, while an officer stood upon the pulpit 
stairs and read aloud the royal warrant, of which the 
listeners gathered little more than that for some im- 
aginary cause of offence their pastor was to be arrested 
and their temple closed. They had hushed their clamor 
long enough to hear it read, but at its conclusion they 
burst into another hoarse, indignant roar, which, in- 
stead of spending itself, seemed every instant to grow 
louder and more threatening. The old minister, who 
had resigned himself unresistingly to his captors, now 
endeavored with outstretched hands and streaming 
eyes to induce them to do the same. But his voice 
was lost in the tumult, and the people misunderstand' 


84 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


ing the gesture, and thinking he appealed to them for 
rescue, answered him with fiercer threats and cries. 
Every moment the uproar became more appalling. At 
a signal from their captain the soldiers brought their 
prisoner down and placed him in the centre of the 
squad. Cool and undismayed they stood with sabres 
drawn and eyes fixed upon their leader, ready at his 
word to cut their way out. The incensed Huguenots 
far outnumbered them, but they were unarmed and 
without discipline, and the war-worn veterans of Louis 
XIV. knew well what would be the result of such an 
unequal contest. Maddened with grief and fear the 
people, however, would certainly have made the vain 
effort to stay their progress, and blood must have 
flowed, had not there appeared upon the scene at this 
moment an individual destined to turn the tide of 
events. The captain had turned to his men and was 
about to give the order for which they waited, when a 
young man stepped hastily forward from the crowd 
and addressed him. He wore the plain dress of a 
citizen, but his frame was tall and powerfully built, 
his eyes piercing, and his speech had a strong South- 
ern accent. 

‘‘If you are Frenchmen, and do not wish to stain 
your hands with the blood of your countrymen, give 
me permission to speak one moment to the people 
without interruption.” 

Without waiting a reply, he sprang upon the pulpit 
steps, and turning his pale, set face toward the surging 
multitude, with a gesture commanded silence. The 
very audacity and unexpectedness of the act chained 
the arms of the dragoons, and startled the people into 
silence. All eyes turned toward the pulpit. Those of 
the Huguenots who had been loudest in their threats, 
began to press toward it. Perhaps here had come the 


A GAME OF SKILL. 


85 


leaaer who would organize their resistance and help 
to rescue their wronged minister. All waited with 
eagerness to hear what he would say. 

The stranger who had succeeded in gaining this 
momentary foothold, lost not an instant in using it. 
Before the multitude had time to recover from that 
second of startled quietness, he was pouring out in a 
mighty voice that made itself heard to the remotest 
corner of the building, a rapid passionate appeal for 
prudence and forbearance. 

“Resist, and you give our persecutors the oppor- 
tunity for which they long ; submit, and you deprive 
them of the voice with which to accuse you. Attempt 
to rescue your pastor by force, and you not only fail, 
but rivet his chains. Suffer his arrest patiently, and 
you do for him all that man can do, by proving how 
sincere and unswerving is the loyalty he has taught 
you. It is the delight of our enemies to represent to 
his majesty that his Huguenot subjects are continually 
in a state of insubordination and revolt. They love 
to goad us into acts of which they may afterward ac- 
cuse us. Disappoint them. Prove to your king the 
falsity of their charges, by showing him with what 
humility and patience you can resign your dearest 
ties at the expression of his royal will.” 

Such was the argument on which he rang the 
changes of his appeal — bold, impetuous, but shrewd- 
ly practical. The people listened, disappointed, sul- 
len, wavering, but they listened, and at length the 
speaker paused, apparently satisfied with the im- 
pression he had made. The fire died out of his face, 
his head dropped low upon his breast ; he seemed 
to feel himself unworthy to utter the words, which 
he knew well were all the people now needed. 
Bending low over the pulpit railing, he addressed 


86 


no IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


the captive pastor in a voice of exceeding reverence 
and love. 

“ My father, they will hear you now. Speak to 
them, and the work is done.” 

The spell that was upon the people seemed to have 
fallen on the dragoons also. Without remonstrance 
they suffered the aged minister to step forward, and 
extend his arms in farewell and in blessing toward his 
smitten flock. 

“My children” — the voice, though trembling with 
emotion, was now distinctly audible in the hushed as- 
sembly — “My little children, I address you, not in my 
own words, but in the words of Him who endured 
much contradiction of sinners against Himself, and 
‘when He was reviled, reviled not again’: ‘Blessed 
are ye when men shall revile you and persecute you, 
and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely for 
My sake. Rejoice and be exceeding glad, for great is 
your reward in heaven.’ ‘Love your enemies : bless 
them which curse you, do good to them that hate you, 
and pray for them which despitefully use you and per- 
secute you. So shall ye be the children of your Father 
which is in heaven.’ ” 

He ceased speaking, and throughout the vast build- 
ing, which a few seconds before had echoed to the 
shouts of a raging mob, was now heard only the 
sound of sobs and murmured prayers. 

The captain of the dragoons saw his advantage, and 
seized it. A whisper to his men, and they closed once 
more about their prisoner, and moved toward the door. 
The people gave way before them, sorrowful but un- 
resisting. At the temple door the officer glanced back. 

“Where is the young man who quieted the people?” 
he demanded. “ There was mischief in what he said, 
and he seemed to have much influence among them.” 


A GAME OF SKILL. 87 

But the young man had disappeared as suddenly as 
he had come. 

“ Caught up, and smuggled away in the crowd,” 
muttered the soldier angrily. “Could not one of you 
have had an eye to him?” But had the truth been 
known, he would have discovered that the congrega- 
tion knew no m.ore of the stranger than he. 

The pastor crossed the threshold of his temple 
never to re-enter it ; the people poured after him ; the 
great oaken doors were closed, and stamped with the 
royal seal. 

Another shadow had fallen from the night now rap- 
idly closing around the Huguenots of France. 


CHAPTER VII. 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 

C APTAIN LA ROCHE’S first emotion on the 
entrance of the soldiers had been one of hot 
indignation. His instinctive impulse had been to place 
himself at the head of the people, and organize them 
into resistance. What he did, however, was only to 
move hastily forward to where the young lady and 
her maid stood, and silently take upon himself the 
charge of their protection. With a keen sense of hu- 
miliation had flashed back upon him the memory of 
the uniform he wore, and the support of the royal au- 
thority to which it bound him. But, at least, it raised 
no barrier between him and the sweeter and lowlier 
task, and every instinct of manhood and chivalry 
drew him toward the gentle girl, now trembling amid 
the surging crowd like a frail flower in the grasp of 
a hurricane. She was very pale, but quite composed, 
with her delicate lips folded firmly together, while her 
attendant wrung her hands and lamented volubly : 

“ Alas, mademoiselle ! this is what comes of wan- 
dering off to these out-of-the-way, forbidden places. 
Would to God I were safe home ! Alas ! alas ! we 
will be murdered.” 

For shame, Rosette ! ” answered a low voice. It 
is the old pastor, not we, who is in danger. It is self- 
ish to think about our own safety.” 

Selfish ! ” shrieked Rosette. “ Selfish, mademob 
( 88 ) 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


89 


selle, when we are about to be shot or trampled to 
death. Look ! the people are about to tear the dra- 
goons in pieces. The soldiers are lowering their mus- 
kets. God have mercy ! ” 

“ I am ashamed of you, Rosette. You are not a 
Frenchwoman if you cannot die bravely. I, at least, 

cannot forget ” But here mademoiselle’s brave 

words died awa)^ in a low cry, as she caught sight of 
a uniform at her elbow. The next instant, recogniz- 
ing the earnest eyes fixed upon her, the cry glided 
into a sigh of relief. 

“ Mademoiselle knows me : she will trust me ? ” 
Captain La Roche said eagerly, but with grave re- 
spect. “ If she will accept of my protection, I pledge 
my honor to see her out of the melee in safety.” 

The crowd surged heavily against them, and he put 
out his free arm to shield her. She caught hold of 
his sleeve with the frank confidence of a child. 

“ Oh, yes, we will trust you, and thank you very 
much, monsieur. We are alone together. Rosette and 
I, and she is very much frightened, and I do not know 
what to do. What ought we to do ? ” 

There was no coquetry now in the beautiful eyes, 
only tears and soft appealing. The soldier’s heart 
swelled proudly. He drew her closer, and laid his 
broad palm on the small hand clinging to his arm, 
and kept it there. It was one of those crises when the 
petty conventionalities of life are forgotten. 

“ There is nothing for us to do but wait quietly 
where we are for the present,” he said. “ Give your- 
self no alarm, mademoiselle ; there shall not a hair of 
your head be hurt.” He felt the strength of twenty 
men rise in him as he spoke. He knew his uniform 
would no longer be a restraint upon him if a sword 
were lifted against her. He would fight his way 


90 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


through a host before a rude hand should touch that 
delicate head. 

She did not seem to hear him: she was looking 
with dilating eyes at the pulpit. 

“ See ! they have seized the poor old minister, and 
are binding him with cords. Are not the people going 
to interfere ? Will they let him be carried off without 

resistance ? Ah, if I were a man ” She checked 

herself, blushing. “ Pardon me, I am ungrateful.” 

“ No, mademoiselle, you are noble ; you are right,” 
he said warmly. “ It is enough to put fire even in a 
woman’s soul, and if I had not been tied hand and foot 
by my uniform, you would have seen that there is one 
man at least who would not witness the outrage 
tamely.” 

She looke.d up, her eyes flashing. “ Then you are 
not one of those, monsieur, who think with the 
preachers that we should bear all insults patiently ? ” 

“ I am not, mademoiselle. The only light I have 
long seen in the darkness that oppresses us is the 
light that sleeps in the scabbard liere, and if there are 
many more scenes like this, all the preaching of the 
ministers will not be able to smother the fire that 
burns in every man’s breast.” He stopped, feeling 
he had said too much, but her face was upturned and 
glowing, as when she sung that martial psalm. 

The women and children of France would have 
less to dread if more thought as you do,” she sighed 
softly, as she turned away her head. Did she know 
what seeds of fire her looks and words were sowing ? 

The tumult was now at its height. The crowd 
moved heavily to and fro. On every side the people 
were pushing and trampling down each other. Wom- 
en screamed, fainted, and were thrown down in the 
press. The quiet, orderly congregation seemed sud- 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


91 


denly transformed into a beast, lashed to fury and de- 
prived of reason. Captain La Roche braced himself 
against the pillar, and exerted all his strength to main- 
.ain a standing-place for himself and his companions. 
But even had not his crippled arm deprived him of 
half his strength, he might as well have tried to stay 
the waters of an incoming tide. Step by step he was 
forced to give way. All that he could do was to keep 
his charges from being knocked down and trampled 
on. He had thrown his arm around the young lady 
to prevent her from being torn from him, and her 
small hands were clasped upon his sleeve with a tenac- 
ity of trust that made him happy even then. She was 
very white; but still, in the dark, flashing eyes and 
firmly-folded lips there was no sign of weakness or 
despair. 

Mademoiselle is brave ; she does not fear even 
now,” he said joyously. 

She gave him a quick look. 

“ I am not afraid—with you,” she said softly. 

The words were spoken with the frank confidence 
of a chila. He dared not fancy that she felt, as he 
did, that it was sweet to be together, even there. 
Why, then, should the words move him so strangely ? 
Why, at this moment of stress and danger, should a 
sudden breath from the past sweep over him, and he 
seem to be galloping along a mountain road in the 
gloom of a winter night, with a small head resting 
against his shoulder ? Then he knew. 

** La Petite,” he whispered, smiling. That was 
what the little child said the night I brought them in 
such hot haste up to the chateau ; but why should I 
have thought of it here and now ? ” 

He came suddenly back to the present. His com- 
panion was addressing him in a voice whose intense 


92 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


quietness made him realize how great was the danger 
toward which she attracted his attention. 

“ We are being pressed toward the wall, monsieur. 
If they force us against it, and the people keep on 
moving like this, we will be ground to powder.” 

He glanced over his shoulder and saw that she was 
right. Slowly but steadily they were being forced 
toward the side of the church, and the white, despair- 
ing faces and agonized shrieks of those who had 
already reached it, warned him what would be their 
fate if they too were borne thither. Anxiously the 
young man looked around him for some chance of 
escape. For the first time his heart began to fail him. 
“ What can I do, what shall 1 do ? ” he asked uncon- 
sciously, the cry of his heart rising involuntarily to his 
lips. A young man forcing his way past them in the 
crowd, turned and answered, as though the question 
had been addressed to him. 

‘"The vestry door is but a yard beyond you, mon- 
sieur. There is a window there through which the 
lady may easily reach the ground.” He indicated the 
direction with a gesture, and the next moment was 
lost to sight in the crowd. But Henri had caught 
fresh strength and courage from the hint. With all 
the energy of rekindled hope he set himself to gain 
the spot pointed out by his unknown friend. Snatch- 
ing his half-healed arm from the sling, he used it as a 
wedge with which he made a passage for them through 
the throng, while with the other he drew after him the 
helpless women. His strength for the moment was 
something superhuman. He seemed alike unconscious 
of pain or exhaustion. In a few moments he had 
gained the door, and opening it, would have hurried 
his companions in, but the younger lingered upon the 
threshold, her eyes fixed upon the pulpit. 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


93 


“Look,” she exclaimed; “there is the man who 
spoke to us in the crowd. He is speaking now to the 
captain of the dragoons ; now he has leaped upon the 
steps. What is he going to do ? ” 

“ He can do nothing but immolate himself, made- 
moiselle. The people are too far gone to listen to rea- 
son, and if he attempts to inflame them further, the 
dragoons will shoot him down without scruple. He is 
a brave man, but a fanatic. Do not let us linger here.” 

She did not heed him. “He is motioning to the 
people to command silence, and they are actually 
obeying him. Now he begins to speak. Surely he will 
urge them to rally to the defense of their old minister.” 

“ On the contrary, he is urging them to submit and 
forbear. See how the crowd lower and shake their 
fists at him. If he does not take care they will tear 
him in pieces instead of the soldiers. Mademoiselle, I 
entreat you.” 

She turned and followed him, evidently disappoint- 
ed. The brief glow had faded from her face. 

“ Submission — forbearance ! Am I ever to hear the 
last of them?” she cried passionately. “Will there 
never a hero arise who will show our people a quicker 
and surer way out of their troubles ? Patience, long- 
suffering : do I not know too well where that ends ? ” 

He glanced at her in surprise. 

“Surely one so young and beautiful, mademoiselle, 
cannot have seen anything but the bright side of life.” 

She averted her face, and he was startled to hear the 
sound of a smothered sob. 

“You think because I am a girl I have not seen 
much trouble,” she murmured reproachfully. “ But 
alas, you do not know. I have seen, I have suffered, ah, 
such dreadful things. It all came back to me when I saw 
the pastor standing there bound among the soldiers.” 


94 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


If she had seemed winsome in her gaiety, noble in 
her peril, now in her softness and her tears she was 
unspeakably womanly and sweet. Henri La Roche 
lifted the little white hand to his lips. 

“ Mademoiselle, your sorrow touches me more nearly 
than you can imagine ; but we should not linger here. 
My pledge to see you in safety out of this ill-fated 
building is still unredeemed, and at any moment the 
tumult may break forth afresh.” 

You are right, monsieur. Our escape should not 
be delayed another instant. But how is it to be ac- 
complished ? ” 

“ Easily enough, mademoiselle, if you will permit 
me to make the descent first.” 

The young officer sprang from the window, and 
lifted, first the young lady, and then her attendant, 
safely to the ground. 

With the first touch of her feet upon terra firma, 
and a consciousness of safety, her native wit returned 
to the tire-woman. With sly amusement she marked 
Henri’s anxious glance at their torn and dishevelled 
dresses. 

“ Give yourself no uneasiness, monsieur. The cot- 
tage of my mother is in the grove of willows yonder, 
and my young lady and I are accustomed to resort 
thither every evening after service for some refresh- 
ment. We have only to proceed thither as usual, and 
send one of my brothers into town for madame’s 
coach and such changes of apparel as these barbarians 
have rendered necessary.” 

Captain La Roche glanced at mademoiselle. 

“ Is this as you would have it ? ” he asked in a low 
voice. “ I am at your service now and always.” 

She started hastily. “ Yes, certainly ; it is all as 
it should be,” she answered. Thank you very much, 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


95 


monsieur, for all that you have done for us, but there 
is no need for you to give yourself any further concern 
on our account.” 

“ I shall certainly not leave you until I see you un- 
der some roof in safety,” Henri answered, a little stiffly, 
and he turned and walked by her side down the nar- 
row woodland path. Still she was strangely silent. 
The safety which had restored her attendant to volu- 
bility and good humor, had brought back to her the 
shy, maidenly veil which Henri had detected more 
than once before. Was she afraid he would presume 
on the confidence she had manifested during the last 
trying half-hour? She should find he was better 
worthy of her trust than that, and Captain La Roche 
also grew silent, and endeavored to throw into his 
manner the grave respect he would have thought it 
necessary to show had one of the princesses of the 
blood condescended to walk with him through an alley 
in Versailles. But as they came in sight of the cot- 
tage-gate, mademoiselle stopped short with a low cry 
of dismay. 

“ My little Testament ! I have lost it,” she faltered. 

“ Then it is gone forever,” decided Rosette promptly. 

It must have been wrested from you in the crowd, 
mademoiselle, and long since trampled into a thou- 
sand fragments.” 

The young lady turned pale,, and tears sprang to 
her eyes. 

“ I would rather have lost every louis d’or I had in 
the world,” she exclaimed piteously. “ I am sure I 
had it in the vestry. Oh, do let me go back and look 
for it. Indeed, I do not mind returning alone at all.” 

The intangible mist that had been rising between 
them was gone once more, and her eyes met Henri's 
frankly now, with a look of childish appeal. 


96 


NO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


“ Impossible,” he answered. “ You cannot return 
to the church, mademoiselle ; but if you will permit 
me to see you to yonder cottage in safety, I will my- 
self go back and make search for your treasure. I am 
sure I would know it again, and if there is a fragment 
of it still in existence you shall have it. Will it be 
enough that I leave it at the cottage here, or will made- 
moiselle do me the honor to name her residence in 
town ? ” 

The last remark Captain La Roche considered quite 
a stroke of strategy, but before mademoiselle could 
answer. Rosette interposed in a shrill staccato. 

“ Permit you to return to that howling mob in 
search of a book, monsieur? It would be folly, crim- 
inal folly, to think of such a thing. Mademoiselle, you 
surely will not permit the young officer to incur such 
useless risk. The book is already out of existence, I 
feel sure.” 

Mademoiselle brushed away her tears. 

“ My little Testament was very precious to me as the 
gift of a dear friend, and I have had it for many years,” 
she sighed. “ But I could not let any one run any risk 
for it. I have only myself to blame. Alas, monsieur, 
w^at is this that I see ? You have already endangered 
yourself more for us than I imagined. Your wound is 
bleeding.” 

Henri glanced down at his injured arm, and saw 
that the sleeve of his doublet was soaked with crimson. 
Now he understood the faintness and dizziness which 
had been creeping over his brain the last few moments. 
He must have strained the half-healed wound too much 
in the press, and been losing blood ever since. 

“It is only a scratch from a Spanish bayonet that 
has proved rather slow of healing,” he said, smiling 
lightly into the troubled girlish eyes. “ Nothing to 


AFTER MANY DAYS, 


97 


frighten the roses from your cheek, mademoiselle. As 
soon as I have seen you within the garden gate, I will 
go and have it attended to.’* 

“You shall not come a step farther.” The pretty 
little demoiselle drew herself up like a young empress. 
“ You shall go at once and have it bound up. At once ! 
do you hear, monsieur ? I command you.” 

“And I obey,” answered Henri. “It is hardly a 
pleasant sight for a lady’s eyes, I admit. Adieu, made- 
moiselle. If you think of me again at all, let it be to 
remember that I would gladly suffer thrice as much 
for the honor of having served you.” 

She extended her hand to him, trembling. 

“ You have saved our lives, and I have not even tried 
to thank you, but I dare not keep you even for that 
now. Go, I say.*' 

He held the white, slender fingers to his lips for a 
moment, gave one more look into her eyes, and went 
How could he know that before they should meet 
again she would be as far beyond his reach as the white 
summer clouds sailing overhead ? 

Several minutes later a young man, hurrying along 
the forest path, caught sight of the officer seated by 
the wayside, his head drooped against the trunk of a 
tree, and the blood dripping from his sleeve in heavy 
crimson drops. In a second the stranger was on his 
knees beside the sufferer, addressing him in a clear, 
musical voice that made itself understood, even through 
the stupor of failing senses. 

“ Monsieur, your wound needs immediate attention, 
and I am a surgeon. Will you permit me to care for 
it?” 

Taking consent as a matter of course, he tore open 
the sleeve of the doublet, and began removing the 
soaked bandages. Henri submitted silently, and 


98 


HO IV THEY KEPT TEE FAITH, 


watched the energetic efforts that followed for his re- 
lief through half-closed eyes, with the indifference of 
utter exhaustion. The new-comer did not again ad- 
dress or look at him. With water from the neighbor- 
ing brook he staunched the flow of blood, and then 
with quick, skilful fingers, replaced the compress. 

With the stay of life’s ebbing current, Henri’s 
strength began to return, his brain grew clearer, and 
he looked earnestly at the grave, kindly face, partially 
averted from him. There was something in the seri- 
ous, quick-glancing eyes, and the steadfast lines about 
the silent lips, that attracted, yet baffled him. 

“I think I have met you before,” he said feebly. 
“But I canilot recall your name. Ah, I remember 
now. You are the young man who spoke to us in the 
church just now. I am glad to have a chance of thank- 
ing you, monsieur. That was a better turn even than 
this.” 

The surgeon looked up, without pausing in his work, 
and smiled. 

“ Your memory is short. The meeting in the temple 
was not our first interview, M. Henri.” 

Was it the old name, or the full glance, or the quiet, 
well-known smile, that told Henri La Roche the 
truth ? The next moment he had thrown his arms 
about the stranger’s neck, and was sobbing like a 
child. 

“ Rene, Rene ! I know you now. How could I have 
been so blind ? ” 

Godfrey Chevalier’s son was by far the calmer of 
the two. He pressed his lips warmly to the hand on 
his shoulder, and then forced his companion back to 
his recumbent position. 

“For once, I must be allowed to give orders to my 
young sieur,” he said gravely. “ M. Henri, if you do 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


99 


not remain quiet for a few moments, your wound will be- 
gin bleeding again, and I may not be able to staunch it/* 

Henri submitted passively. 

“ I am happy enough to do anything that you wi«h, 
mon ami. By the lilies of France, you have learned 
your calling well. To think I should not have known 
you from the first ; do you come from the schools, or 
from the hills ? ” 

The hills, my young sieur. I received my degree 
three months ago, and have already begun the practice 
of my profession in sight of the towers of Beaumont.” 

“ Beaumont : the very name is enough to put cordial 
into the faintest pulses. I think I see them now, glow- 
ing like the battlements of Paradise in the light of the 
setting sun. Tell me something of my father, Rene. 
It is long since I have heard from him, and he never 
writes much about himself.” 

Rene Chevalier hesitated. 

“ Monsieur’s head is less erect, and his step slower,” 
he said sadly. “ The troubles of his people and of the 
Desert Church press heavily upon him. But his eye 
has the old fire, and his voice is as strong as ever, 
when he speaks of his son’s exploits on the field, and 
talks of his long-looked-for coming home.” 

Tears sprang to Henri’s eyes. 

“ And I have been kept loitering here for a fort 
night, waiting the pleasure of that idle kinsman o 
mine. By the sweetest eyes I know, I will be tied fo 
him no longer; I will start for the Cevennes to-mor- 
row. What, my doctor ! you think I will not, if I per- 
sist in wearing out my strength like this ? Wei, ; do 
you talk more then, and I will hold my tongue Tell 
me of your mother and the little sister. Are th^’y well, 
and at Beaumont also ? The little maid must be well- 
grown by this.” 


100 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


Agnes Chevalier’s brother smiled — not a momentary 
parting of the grave lips as before, but a sudden full 
out-shining of the soul within, like the coming out of 
the sun on a wintry day. 

“ She hath indeed grown, my young sieur, into some- 
thing fairer and purer than the whitest lily that was 
ever blown. The soul of my father is in her eyes, and 
in her voice — the people say — a note they have not 
heard since the good pastor went away. The looks of 
my mother dwell upon her, and your father watches 
for her coming every day, monsieur, as he watches for 
the rising of the sun. His sight is not what it used 
to be, and the little maid is happy to read to him 
hour after hour, sometimes learned discussions about 
our faith, but oftenest from the Book they I oth 
love best. Monsieur, too, thinks that he detects in 
her voice the music of one that will never be heard 
again.” 

Henri La Roche stretched out his hand. 

“ I heard of the end, Rene,” he said huskily. “ Shot 
down, chained to the oar, in a skirmish with a Dutch 
squadron, a month after he was placed in the galley- 
ship. Thank God, the release came so soon ! ” 

“ Thank God ! ” echoed the son quietly. “ It mat- 
ters little to him now, monsieur, through what gate 
he entered in, and we may well pray to have so abun- 
dant an entrance ministered unto us. The truth he 
died for has not languished in the Cevennes. The 
temple in which he preached was indeed destroyed, 
but the chateau-chapel has been repaired, and your 
father sees that it is supplied every Sabbath by young 
ministers from Nismes, and more than once pastor 
Brousson has himself filled the pulpit. We may go 
down in the fight, monsieur, but the banner of our 
King goes on ‘conquering and to conquer.’ ” 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


lOI 


see you are the same old Rene. But what of 
your mother, my man ? You say naught of her.” 

“ The stars do not change, my young sieur.” 

“ Nor the angels in Paradise. You are right, mon 
ami. But tell me how you manage to pursue your 
forbidden vocation without interference ?” 

“Very easily, M. Henri. Through the kindness of 
monsieur, I have been able to rent a farm adjoining 
the forests of Beaumont, and in the heart of my father’s 
people. If the authorities inquire, I am only a vine- 
dresser. If my brethren need me, they know where 
to send.” 

“ Bravo ! You are a match for the Jesuits them- 
selves. But that puts me in mind. What on earth 
did you mean, Rene, by attempting to lift your voice 
in the tumult just now, and what means the silence 
in the temple yonder? I thought the people were 
about to tear you in pieces when I quitted the build- 
ing.” 

“ The tumult is over, monsieur. The pastor has 
been removed, and the people are quietly dispersing.” 

“The people quietly dispersing! Then it is your 
doing, Rene. But what spell do you carry under your 
tongue, O my golden-mouthed Chrysostom ? You 
should have been an orator, not a doctor.” 

“ It was only necessary to induce them to pause and 
consider. Their own good sense and the words of 
their pastor did the rest.” 

“Modest as ever. Well, I will not praise you if you 
would rather not. I will keep it all until I see the 
good mother and the little sister. They will prove 
better listeners. But tell me, mon ami, what can I do 
for you in return for all your service this afternoon ? 
What ! you are so happy and so singular as not to 
have a wish ungratified ? ” 


102 


THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


‘‘Nay, monsieur ; but the debt is on my side. It is 
I who must thank you.” 

“Ah ! I do not see how you make that out. You 
have saved my life twice over in the course of an hour, 
and though it is not of much value to any one else, I 
confess I am not eager to part with it just yet.” 

“Yet after all, my young sieur, the obligation rests 
with me. I have saved your life, perhaps. You have 
served one who is a thousand times dearer to me than 
my life.” 

Henri stared. “I do not understand you,” he said 
blankly. 

“ Captain La Roche is then not aware of the name 
of the young lady whom he rescued just now from the 
press ? ” 

The soldier’s heart gave a great leap and then stood 
still. 

“How should I be?” he asked defiantly. “I am a 
stranger in La Rochelle. She was a woman in peril, 
and I succored her.” 

Rene Chevalier smiled. 

“ I, too, am a stranger in La Rochelle, monsieur, but 
there is a face I have seen too often in my dreams, not 
to know it again, though I met it at the ends of the 
earth, after years of absence — the face of my foster- 
sister and promised wife. I saw it leaning on your 
arm, M. Henri, as I passed you in the crowd, and I 
knew it even then.” 

Henri La Roche was sitting very still. When he saw 
that Rene had paused and was expecting some reply, 
he made an effort to speak, but instead uttered a low 
cry, and fell back fainting against the tree. His face 
was so ashy that the surgeon, in much alarm, ran 
hastily to the brook near by, and filling a drinking-cup 
with water, hastened back with it. To his relief he 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


103 


found Henri partially restored and trying to rise to a 
sitting posture. He caught eagerly at the cup and 
drained it, smiling feebly but reassuringly into the 
anxious face bent over him. 

“ It was only a twinge from my wound. I am better 
now. Bah, you will make a poor doctor if you are so 
easily frightened.’" 

“ You are weaker from the loss of blood than you 
imagine, monsieur. I must positively insist that you 
lie quie^t where you are, without speaking, for at least 
five minutes.” 

Even had Henri been inclined to rebel he would 
have known by the firm setting of his friend’s lips, 
that it would be useless ; but he was in truth only too 
thankful for the chance to gather up his strength and 
conceal the blow. He lay passive as a babe until the 
softening of Rene’s watchful face told that the time 
had expired, and then he asked lightly: 

“ So you think the young lady I assisted out of the 
church is little Mademoiselle Eglantine, whom I used 
to tease and play with ? I am sorry to disappoint you, 
mon ami, but I am confident you are mistaken. You 
saw her but a moment. Is it likely that I, who was 
with her so much longer, would not have recognized 
her, had it indeed been she ? ” He spoke stoutly, but in 
truth, dull conviction had already fastened upon his 
soul. He recalled the strange spell with which those 
eyes had haunted him from the first, the sudden remi- 
niscence of the childish plaything of his youth, which 
had flashed upon him in the crowd; above all, that out- 
b’lrst of grief at sight of the captive pastor. 

Once more the young Cevanol smiled. 

“ It is not to be expected you should recognize her 
as soon as I, monsieur. I needed but that one look 
into her eyes ! Yet if I desired further proof, it is 


104 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


given me.” He drew a small volume from his breast, 
and Henri instantly recognized the Testament he had 
seen mademoiselle carry into church. He reached out 
his hand for it, and his friend quietly resigned it. 

“ I gave it to her the day we parted in Nismes, five 
years ago,” said Eglantine’s foster-brother. 

Captain La Roche turned to the fly-leaf, and read, 
traced in a beautiful, clerkly hand: 

“ To my dear son^ Rene Chevalier. From his father. 
June., 1669.” 

And just below, in hasty boyish writing : 

^^Read it, Eglantine. I will think of you and pray for 
you every day." 

And yet farther down, printed in the large, painstaking 
characters of a child, and blotted with a falling tear : 

do try, Rene. But it is very hard to be good without 
you and my aunt Monique." 

Henri closed the book and gave it back. His lips 
trembled slightly. 

“I congratulate you on the possession of one treas- 
ure and the restoration of another, my good doctor. 
Pretty Mademoiselle Eglantine was very much dis- 
tressed at the loss of her book. Where did you find 
it ?” 

Under the window, where she must have dropped 
it in descending. I hastened thither as soon as my 
work was done, in the hope of overtaking you and 
being of some assistance. How shall I ever thank 
you, monsieur, for your noble care of my betrothed ? ” 

“ Nonsense, Rene ; do not let us go through that 
parade of gratitude again. I think we understand 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


105 


each other. What puzzles me is, why you did not 
come to her assistance yourself when you recognized 
her. Duty, — I see the word coming on your lips, and I 
know you of old. But had your foster-sister no strong- 
er claim upon you than that frenzied mob ? Is every- 
thing to be decided by the cold logic of conscience, and 
nothing by the warm law of the heart ? Is one never to 
do as he wishes, unless one always wishes as he should } ” 

“ I am sure one would never wish to do anything 
but what is right, M. Henri. If one could only al- 
ways be sure what is right. Even a difficult duty be- 
comes easy when one has come to know duty as the 
voice of God.” 

Captain La Roche lifted his hand imploringly. 

Spare me. To love one’s duty: to wish always 
what is right ? Such heights are too high for me, 
Rene, though I doubt not you find them easy climb- 
ing enough. You were always one of the good sort. 
I don’t suppose you ever longed for the plum in an- 
other boy’s pie, nor thought somebody’s slice better 
buttered than your own.” 

‘‘ M. Henri gives me credit for a self-denial I had no 
call to exercise. I recognized him as well as my fos- 
ter-sister, and I knew well what my young sieur had 
undertaken to protect he would keep.” 

Once more Henri threw up his hand with a whimsi- 
cal gesture of despair. 

philosopher as well as a Demosthenes. La 
grande passion will never give you much trouble, 
Rene. But I hardly know whether mademoiselle is 
to be congratulated on so self-contained a husband. 
Have you not even a spark of curiosity as to her 
whereabouts at present ? ” 

“She is in safety, or I would not have found M. 
Henri quietly seated by the roadside.” 


io6 


NO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“ Still the head, not the heart. La Petite would 
scarcely feel flattered if she heard you. Let me see 
if I cannot quicken that sluggish blood of yours. See 
you the cottage in the grove yonder? She is there at 
this moment, composing herself after the tumult, and 
awaiting the arrival of her aunt’s coach from town. 
What ! you do not fly ? Are you marble, man ? I 
need you no longer. You are free, I say ! ” 

The surgeon did not move. 

“ My young sieur does need me,” he said firmly. 
“ I shall not leave you until I have seen you in safety 
to the door of your hotel. As for Eglantine, it is 
enough for to-day to be assured of her escape. To- 
morrow I will call upon her, as I have her grand- 
father’s permission to do, at her aunt’s residence. I 
understand M. Laval’s temper too well to run the risk 
of offending him by what he might consider a clandes- 
tine interview.” 

Captain La Roche flung himself away from his 
companion with a contempt he no longer took pains 
to conceal. 

“Scruples again, Rene? You will die for a scruple 
yet. I wonder, since your conscience is so tender, 
that you have been visited with no compunctions 
as to marrying her at all. Life under a Huguenot 
physician’s roof will be a very different thing from 
what mademoiselle has of late been accustomed to, 
and what her birth and beauty might fairly lead 
her to expect. But I suppose your conscience has 
accommodated itself to that difficulty with a casu- 
istry best known to itself. When is the wedding 
likely to come off? I must make the bride a hand- 
some present, if only in memory of to-day’s adven- 
ture.” 

He had roused Rene Chevalier at last. Two spots 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


107 

of vivid color showed themselves through the moun- 
taineer’s bronzed skin. 

“ There is no talk of the wedding yet, monsieur. My 
choice of a profession displeased M. Laval long ago, 
and since our return he has looked coldly upon us. 
Probably he thinks with you, that his granddaughter 
might look higher, but he is bound by his promise to 
the dead not to force her inclinations. If Eglantine 
remains true to her early attachment, he has as good 
as promised my mother that he will not withhold his 
consent. If, however, she finds the pleasures of the 
world more attractive than a life of self-denial for the 
Master’s sake, I have neither the power nor the wish 
to press my claim.” 

The listener rose wearily to his feet. 

“Spoken right proudly, Rene. But if La Petite 
keeps the same heart she had five years ago, I fancy 
you have no need to fear the issue. Parbleu. How the 
pretty brows used to glower at me if I tried to steal 
you away for a day’s hunting or fishing. I believe she 
thought me her natural enemy. What are you picking 
up, my man — the favor? Bah, it is only a bit of rib- 
bon, and I care not for it. But since you will be ob- 
stinate and see me back to town, let me have the 
help of your strong arm, mon ami. I feel strangely 
shaken.” 


CHAPTER Vlir. 


CATHEDRAL STEPS 


HE sun was setting in a bank of splendor as the 



1 young men came around from the side of the 
church, and a stream of crimson light fell across the 
summer fields and touched the seal upon the door. 
Rene pointed to it. 

“ It is as I feared. The truth has been heard within 
those walls for the last time.” 

“Yet you could counsel the people to submit.” 

“ Because I knew too well the uselessness of resist- 
ance — because I have been taught to believe that the 
‘weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but spiritual.* 
Be of good cheer, my young sieur. A shut temple is 
but a quenched candle. The truth for which we stand 
is as the sun in heaven.” 

“If matters go on as they have done to-day, that sun 
will soon be blotted out in such a night of tempest as 
many of us will not care to survive. Yes, I know what 
you would say, mon ami. The truth is as sure to rise 
again as the light to come in the east, but what will 
it matter to us, who have been crushed — trampled out 
of existence ? Would to God the old days were back, 
when men kept the faith at the point of sword and 
battle-axe, and died, when die they must, like men, not 
sheep.” 

“ There are those in our own day who have made the 
attempt, monsieur, and proved, alas, the literal fulfil- 
ment of one declaration, ‘They that take the sword 


(io8) 


CATHEDRAL STEPS. 


109 

shall perish by the sword.’ You have heard of the ris- 
ing in the Vivarais ? ” 

For the moment Henri La Roche forgot even the 
soft eyes of M. Laval’s granddaughter. 

“ A rising among our people ? Nay, Rene. I have 
heard nothing — absolutely nothing since I came back 
to France, but the last court-scandal and the newest 
bon-mots. My cousin Claude cares for nothing else, 
and my father’s letters have strangely miscarried. 
Quick. Tell me everything.” 

The Cevanol drew nearer to his friend. 

The attempt was unsuccessful, of course, monsieur. 
But I must make my story short, for it is scarce a safe 
theme for a wayside talk. The trouble began last sum- 
mer, at Toulouse, by the Parliament ordering the de- 
molition of the principal Huguenot temples, on some 
imaginary ground of offence. The congregations ap- 
pealed to the king, while the bishop of the diocese put 
in a request that instead of being destroyed, the tem- 
ples might be turned over to him, to be converted into 
churches. In time the answer came, denying both 
petitions. The total destruction of the Protestant 
places of worship was to be preferred, his majesty de- 
cided, as being more likely to break the spirit of the 
people. But the city rose en masse against the out- 
rage, and two of the pastors gave notice to the Due 
de Noailles that they would hold service the next Sab- 
bath as usual. His answer was to arrest them, and con- 
fine them in his own house until after the day named, 
when he permitted them to leave the place unharmed. 
The insurrection among the people he put down with 
an iron hand. You are aware that he believes in strong 
measures, but I cannot understand, my young sieur, 
how nothing of all this reached you just across the 
Spanish border.” 


no 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


“ Something of it did reach me, Rene, but so softened 
down as to appear only a town riot, quickly quelled.” 

Rene shook his head. 

“ The flame only smouldered, and has been secretly 
spreading ever since. It broke out in the Vivarais 
with the beginning of warm weather. The due was 
incensed, and the troops of St. Ruth were at once or- 
dered into the province. At first, their appearance 
somewhat intimidated our misguided brethren. A 
compromise was attempted, but the terms of the am- 
nesty were too severe, and the people once more took 
up arms. You anticipate the result, M. Henri ? They 
met on a wooded slope, near the little village of 
Pierre-Gourde. Both were French. There was valor 
and desperation on one side, and on the other valor 
and — discipline. Our poor friends fought bravely, 
but they were completely routed. Through the forest 
many escaped; many more were slaughtered; thirteen 
were captured; twelve were hung, and their miserable 
survivor compelled to act as their executioner. Nor 
was that all, monsieur. It was not enough that the 
Huguenots of Languedoc had failed in their attempt 
to secure for themselves and their children the right 
to worship God according to their conscience: they 
must be taught a lesson. Ten of our largest temples 
have been demolished. The beautiful valley of the 
Rhone has been desolated. The last of the inhabit- 
ants have been hunted down, and hung without the 
show of a trial. Those who were opposed to the ap- 
peal to arms have perished with those who chose the 
sword. From one end of our sunny province to the 
other there is death and the shadow of death. Do 
you wonder that I counselled the people of La Rochelle, 
for the sake of their wives and little ones, to pause 
and consider? ” 


CATHEDRAL STEPS. 


Ill 


Henri’s eyes were flashing. 

“ What our people want is union, discipline ; leaders 
who will organize and train them in the arts of war*, 
and pastors who will send them into battle, with the 
psalms of David, not with the Sermon on the Mount, 
ringing in their ears. I tell you, Rene, it is the faint- 
hearted policy of our ministers that weakens the 
hands of our people. Let them but feel that the ven- 
geance of God is in every blow they strike, and there 
shall yet be lit on the hills of Languedoc a fire which 
the iron heel of De Noailles cannot trample out. Let 
but the Protestants of France stand together as one 
man, and the conflagration shall sweep on till it 
reaches the gates of Versailles itself. Then let the 
Huguenots of to-da)^ dictate terms to their king, as their 
fathers have done to his fathers more than once.” 

Softly, my young sieur. We are on the public 
road, and woods have tongues as well as ears. The 
consolidation you speak of is no longer possible. We 
are too widely separated, too closely watched, too 
heavily fettered. Since the last outbreak, even the 
purchase of firearms has been prohibited to the Prot- 
estants of Languedoc.” 

Once more the soldier set his teeth hard. 

“ I shall see that the armory of Beaumont is well 
supplied, and that the mountaineers know v^here to 
find carbines if they need them. Tell me, Rene, has 
the storm touched our own Cevennes ? I vow if one 
of my father’s people has been harmed I will throw up 
my commission to-morrow. I will no longer wear the 
uniform of a king who permits my servants to be 
slaughtered at home while I am fighting his battles 
abroad.” 

“ Softly once more, M. Henri, I entreat you. The 
inhabitants of the southern Cevennes remain faithful to 


II2 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


their king, and have been left unmolested. Even the 
tiger-like instincts of the Intendant seemed chained, 
and he has sent missionaries instead of dragoons into 
our hills.” 

“ It is the crouch of the beast before he springs, 
Rene.” 

But they had now reached the bridge leading into 
the city, and the subject was dropped by tacit consent 
as they threaded their way through the dark, narrow 
lanes. 

“I would have you in to sup with me,” said Henri 
at the door of his hotel, but I fear you would find my 
travelling companions little to your taste. My cousin 
Claude, and a young abbe, a friend of his, are journey- 
ing with me.” 

His friend gave him a keen but respectful glance. 

“ M. Renau used not to be so great a favorite with 
you, my young sieur.” 

Nor is he now ; but, to be frank with you, Rene, I 
am indebted t ) him for some small losses at play, and 
cannot afford to offend him before my next quarter’s 
pay comes due. So when he and his friend proposed 
accompanying me down to Beaumont, I had no choice 
but to say them yea. Well, my mentor, I read disap- 
proval in thine eye. What is it : the cards, or the 
abbe ? ” 

A spirit of recklessness had seized Captain La 
Roche. He well knew how the practice of gaming 
was regarded by the stricter among his sect, and what 
a serious defection from his early training it would 
appear in the eyes of Godfrey Chevalier’s son. But 
Rene showed no intention of playing the role assigned 
him. The hour he had already spent with his noble 
friend had better prepared him for the revelation than 
Henri dreamed, and he answered the defiant gaze with 


CATHEDRAL STEPS, 


II3 

one of such affectionate regret, that Henri was instant- 
ly penitent. 

“ Nay, do not look as if I am altogether a castaway, 
mon ami ; I only spoke of the cards to tease you. I am 
indebted to my kinsman for much kindness as well. 
We came to know each other better last winter, 
when he turned aside on his way from Madrid to 
spend a few weeks with me in camp ; and as soon as he 
heard of my wound this spring, he sent down his own 
coach and leech to bring me up to his chateau on the 
coast, where the sea-air hath done wonders for me, I 
must admit. How long will you be in La Rochelle, 
Rene?” « 

“Until the arrival of the Southampton schooner, 
monsieur. I have sent over to England for the books 
and instruments I cannot purchase here.” 

“So your business here is not altogether of the 
heart? I might have known it. Well, Rene, I will 
see the hills, and the mother, and Agnes before you 
then, for I propose to start for Beaumont to-morrow. 
What, you think not, my wise doctor? Well, the next 
day then, the first morning I can keep a steady hand 
on the bridle. Leave your address with me, and if I 
need a surgeon before I leave, I will send for you. 
Otherwise, I shall not of course encroach on La 
Petite’s prerogative upon your time.” 

He passed on wearily into the house, and Rene 
turned in the direction of the quiet inn where he had 
his lodgings. He had not gone more than a couple of 
rods, when a hand caught his sleeve. 

“ Pardon, monsieur ; but you are the gentleman who 
spoke to us in the temple, and counselled us to sub- 
mit.” 

By the fading light, Rene saw a shabbily-dressed 
artisan at his side. 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


1 14 

“ I am,” he said, “ but this is not the place to discuss 
the matter, my friend.” 

“Come with me a moment, and I will show you an 
argument on the other side you cannot answer.” 

“ Have you the watchword ? ” 

“‘The Lord of Hosts is with us.’ ” 

“‘The God of Jacob is our refuge’; I follow, my 
brother.” 

The man led the way round the corner, and up four 
steep flights of stairs, into a miserable attic. The 
light was brighter there than in the street below, and 
Rene could see that the only furniture of the room 
consisted of an empty loom in one corner, and a bed, 
on which sat an emaciated woman, with an infant on 
her lap. Two sallow, hollow-eyed children crouched 
on the hearthstone. 

“There,” said the man in a harsh, grating voice. 
“ Master Barveau would have no workmen who did 
not go to mass, and Aimee said I had better give up 
the work and trust in God, and this is what it has 
come to. No work for the last six weeks, and the chil- 
dren have not tasted food since the day before yester- 
day, and the babe is dying because the mother has 
stinted herself to make the food last as long as it has. 
Do you tell me a man is to sit calmly down and bear 
a wrong like that ? ” 

The woman glanced up for a moment. She had a 
sweet, gentle face, though its expression was unutter- 
ably sad. 

“ I think the little one has brightened up since you 
went out,” she said softly. 

Rene stepped to the bed and laid his finger on the 
tiny wrist. Anything more emaciated than the little 
creature he had never seen. The skin was drawn 
tightly over the fleshless brow ; the little hands were 


CATHEDRAL STEPS. 


II5 

like the talons of a bird. It was plainly a case of slow 
starvation. The pulse was just flickering. 

“ How long has he been like this?” he asked the 
mother. 

“ Only for a fortnight. We had a little put by, and 
we sold everything before we let the children want.” 

Rene tore a leaf from his note-book, pencilled a few 
lines, and handed it to his new friend. 

^‘It is the Sabbath, and we cannot purchase any- 
thing ; but take it to the Auberge at the foot of the 
street, and bring quickly what they send.” 

The man hesitated. “ I did not ask alms,” he said 
sullenly. 

Take it in Christ’s name. The child may live if 
you make speed.” 

“ Have we not asked God to help us ? Do not let us 
refuse what He has sent,” added the wife imploringly, 
and the father took the paper and went without an- 
other word. 

Rene sat down on the edge of the bed. The moth- 
er’s hollow eyes were fastened upon his face. 

“ Do you think it is possible to save him even yet ? ” 
she asked. 

“ I hope so. We will do all for him that we can.” 

The slow tears began to trickle down her face. 

“I knew I would not trust my God for nothing,” 
she said brokenly. And Rene knew that the faith had 
been kept in that dreary attic through as sore a stress 
as in any dungeon of the Inquisition. 

In less than ten minutes the weaver was back with 
wine and milk and bread. The surgeon bade him sat- 
isfy the older children with the latter, while he and 
the mother forced a few drops of the stimulant be- 
tween the pinched lips of the babe. In a second the 
pulse respondedc 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


1 16 

“ He will live/’ whispered Rene to the mother. 

She turned to her husband with shining eyes. 

“ Did I not tell you God would remember us? ” she 
asked tremulously. It was the strong man’s turn to 
weep. 

“ It is your faith, not mine, that has drawn the 
blessing down, Aimee. I have been unbelieving and 
rebellious. More than once I would have given in 
and gone to the priest, rather than see you and the 
children suffer, if you had not held me back.” 

“ Nay, you think so, but you could not really have 
done it,” she answered softly. 

They continued to ply the little one with nourish- 
ment and stimulant, and at the end of an hour the 
child had wonderfully revived, and fallen into a 
healthy sleep. But the young doctor knew that the 
little life still hovered in the balance, and sat watching 
with the father and mother until late. By that time he 
had heard their whole story, persuaded them to accept 
the money they needed for their immediate necessities, 
and promised the weaver to try and obtain work for 
him in Lodeve. When he came down into the street 
he found it flooded with moonlight. The common 
stones of the pavement had been transmuted into 
silver ; the dark, old houses glowed transfigured, a 
saintly nimbus was on every roof. How like to the 
heavenly radiance streaming down into our darkened 
world, hallowing toil, transmuting care, and touching 
rough and common ways v/ith beauty. 

Rene Chevalier did not turn at once in the direction 
of his inn, and as he threaded his way slowly through 
the moonlit streets, his thoughts were busy with the 
morrow, and his meeting with Eglantine. What 
changes had these five years wrought in her ? For him 
they had been years of toil, struggle, and achievement, 


CATHEDRAL STEPS, 


n; 


yet his love seemed to annihilate them as he looked 
back. She was as near and dear to him now as when 
they had read together out of one book on the old 
Cevanol hearthstone. Would he find her still loving, 
true, and unspoiled ^ The stiff little letters that had 
occasionally drifted to him during their separation had 
done less to bridge the gulf than to make him conscious 
of it. That momentary glimpse into her face that 
afternoon had told him only that she was a woman 
and beautiful. With a wistful pang he recalled the 
sweet face nestled on his father’s breast and the loving 
eyes looking up at him through a veil of tears. I will 
never love anybody better than Rene, though I see the 
whole world,” she had said then. Would she say so 
now? Would the soul that had looked at him out of 
those childish eyes look at him from the woman’s? 
Would Eglantine, the woman, choose as Eglantine, the 
child, would certainly have done, to suffer with him 
and his mother, rather than to be happy with all the 
world beside ? Lofty consecration, self-denial for its 
own sake, he did not expect. He well knew her train- 
ing had been against anything like that, but he could 
not believe that the -little hand which had once clung 
so confidingly to his, would hesitate to renew the old 
clasp, and with those gay, young feet once committed 
to walk through the world by his side, to what blessed 
heights might they not climb together. 

He had reached this point in his dream, when he 
woke to find himself passing the cathedral, where 
some high church festival had evidently just been 
celebrated. The music was still pealing, but the wor- 
shippers were coming out. He stood aside to let them 
pass. As he did so, two ladies, apparently mother and 
daughter, paused on the step near him. Both were 
veiled, but the matronly fullness of one figure and the 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


I rS 

slender grace of the other, led him to this conclusion. 
Their escort had some difficulty in having their coach 
brought up in the narrow street, and finally came back 
to ask madame to walk a few steps down the pavement 
to where it stood waiting. The elderly lady stepped 
down and beckoned to her companion to follow her 
How it happened Rene could never exactly tell. He 
thought he saw her trip, and put out his hand to save 
her. Light as a flower, her finger-tips touched his for 
an instant. A strange thrill shot through his pulses, 
the breeze blew aside her veil, and he recognized the 
tender eyes and mirthful lips of which he had been 
dreaming. 

“ Eglantine ! ” 

“ Rene ! ” 

She knew him now. Unconscious of the lookers-on, 
their hands lingered in each other’s, and their eyes 
met in a long, silent gaze. Hers glowed with pleasure; 
his were clouded with a great fear. Had he come too 
late to save her, his darling, from the power of the 
lion ? Madame looked around, wondering at the delay. 

“ Monsieur ! Eglantine ! ” she exclaimed indignantly. 

Eglantine looked up hastily. * 

“ It is Rene, aunt Madeline, my foster-brother Rene, 
of whom you have heard me speak so often, and whom 
I have not seen for years.” 

Madam.e Cartel threw back her veil. She was a 
pretty old lady, with bright eyes and dimples in her 
chin. 

“You are making a spectacle of yourself for the 
street. Eglantine. If this young man is indeed your 
friend, let him call upon you at your residence in a 
proper manner.” 

Eglantine turned appealingly to Rene. 

“ I must go now ; indeed I must. But you will 


CATHEDRAL STEPS. 


ng 

^,ome and see me very soon, will you not ? And tell 
me all about my aunt and Agnes ? ” 

He made no answer. His grasp upon her hand had 
grown painfully tight. His relentless gaze seemed 
searching her soul. Slowly her lids fell, and a faint 
pout showed itself on her lips. Eglantine was begin- 
ning to be a little piqued that Rene showed no more 
pleasure at meeting her. 

“ You hurt me,” she said, trying to draw away her 
hand. 

He released it instantly. In total silence the girl 
found herself escorted to the coach and assisted into 
it. The door was about to close, when she stole a 
look into his face. Its ashy pallor smote her to the 
heart. 

“ Oh, Rene, do not leave me like that ! Do not let 
us part like this ! ” she cried, leaning forward with 
outstretched hands. In a moment he was beside her 
again, enfolding them in his large, strong ones. 

“ There spoke my little sister of five years ago,” 
he exclaimed. 

Eglantine, tell me that my eyes deceived me just 
now when I thought I saw you come out of the cathe- 
dral. Tell me that you have not apostatized from the 
faith of our childhood.” 

No, no, Rene ! Indeed I have not. We were in 
the church, it is true, but it was for the first time, 
and it was only to hear the music. Aunt Madeline 
says there is no harm in that.” 

No harm ! ” he echoed. 

Madame pulled the coach-strap. “ Drive on,” she 
called to the coachman, and Rene had barely time to 
spring out of the way of the starting wheels. He never 
remembered anything about the walk home. When 
he came to himself, he was seated by the table in his 


120 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


chamber at the Auberge, with his face buried in his 
hands. It had all happened in a few seconds, but he 
knew that a great epoch in his life had passed. Some- 
thing had stopped in his heart that would never go on 
quite the same. He scarcely thought of Madame Car- 
tel. It was against Eglantine herself that his anger 
burned most hotly. Of the gay, easy-going woman of 
the world little was to be expected ; but of the child 
who had lain upon his mother’s breast and been taught 
at his father’s knee, he felt he had had a right to look 
for something better. After her eager denial, it was 
impossible to doubt that she had acted thoughtlessly. 
But what right had she to be thoughtless on a matter 
of such vital importance, he asked sternly. Eglantine, 
the child, would have known better. Was Eglantine, 
the woman, to be more easily led astray ? Had she for- 
gotten the perpetual blasphemy in the sacrifice of the 
mass, the idolatrous worship of a woman like herself, 
embalmed in the music she had gone to hear ? Had the 
incidents of that afternoon made so little impression 
upon her heart that she could clasp hands so quickly with 
the persecutors of her faith ? Where was Nannette ? 
Had she forgotten her mother, and the cost at which 
the pure faith of her childhood had been purchased 
for her ? Rene Chevalier’s heart grew hard. Grant- 
ing all that were so, and the suffering of a stranger 
awoke only passing sympathy, one thought ought yet 
to have chained her feet upon that threshold — one 
memory, like an angel in the way, have withstood her. 
She could not have forgotten his father. Had she 
learned to condone that cruel death, to think lightly 
of that good confession to make friends with his mur- 
derers ? He had reached this point, when he touched 
the little Testament in his breast. He drew it out and 
opened it. The leaves were yellow and clung clam^ 


CATHEDRAL STEPS. 


I2I 


mily together. The volume was evidently little read. 
With growing sadness, but less bitterness, he turned 
to the fly-leaf with its three inscriptions. He had 
glanced them over that afternoon with a tender smile. 
Now his eyes grew dim as they rested on the words 
printed at the bottom of the page : 

“/ do try, Rene j but it is very hard to be good without you 
and my aunt Monique.'" 

With a rush of remorseful tenderness, he lifted the 
book to his lips. She had tried to be and do all they 
would have her, but it had been “ very hard,” alone. 
He could understand it all now, could imagine just 
how untoward things had been made for her— -how 
lonely and difficult had looked the strait way, how 
broad and easy that other road, down which all about 
her were sauntering. Fool that he had been, to judge 
and condemn her ! Rene Chevalier fell on his knees 
beside his bed, and cried to God for pardon, and for 
strength to save her even yet. “ Help me, Rene ! 
Be patient with me, Rene ! ” seemed now to him the 
language of those outstretched hands, those pleading 
eyes. Ay, he would help her — God helping him ! — 
with all there was in him of love to give, of strength 
to hold, of courage to achieve — help her, and already 
dimly he foresaw the possibility, from herself, in spite 
of herself. He would go to her early on the morrow. 
It was his duty to remonstrate plainly with Madame 
Cartel on the imprudence of attending a Catholic ser- 
vice, under the last ordinance, but he would be very 
gentle with Eglantine. He would tell her of the scene 
he had witnessed that evening in the weaver’s attic, 
and of many another case of suffering and constancy 
he knew ; he would remind her tenderly of old dayc, 
his mother’s love, his father’s teachings; he would not 


122 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


spare either her or himself : he would lay bare before 
her the story of that dungeon in St. Esprit, of which 
he felt sure she had never heard. She must listen to 
him ; flattery and indulgence could never have so 
utterly spoiled a heart naturally true and loving. 
Whether the blessing would ever be returned into his 
own bosom, he did not ask ; into one deep, passionate 
desire had been emptied all the other desires of his life. 

“ Still angry with me, little one ? Is it such a crime 
to have pitied you, ungrateful child ? Will I have to 
take back what I said, and protest he will make you 
the kindest and best of husbands ?” 

The glow of the summer morning was softened to a 
golden shadow in the heart of the luxurious boudoir. 
Madame Cartel’s wrinkled hand was upon her niece’s 
head. Eglantine’s flushed face was bent low over her 
embroidery frame. 

There was no need to say anything about it, aunt 
Madeline. I will not hear Rene abused, but you know 
very well that I need not marry him unless I like.” 

“ Bravo, my pet ! Look up, and let us see if we can- 
not make up this little quarrel. You are angry be- 
cause I said he would make a tyrant of a husband ? 
Well, my dear, if I am not to look upon him in that 
light, I doubt not but what I may be able to find some- 
thing to admire.” 

With a hand of soft authority, madame drew the 
needle from the trembling fingers, and led her niece to 
a seat on a silken divan. A reluctant smile was be- 
ginning to dimple round the girlish mouth. The old 
lady hailed it with a gay sweet laugh. 

“ Let me see : what was it I was to concede — some 
virtue in this old playmate of yours ? Well, he is 
courageous, I will grant you that ; I never in my life 
saw any one more indifferent to the eyes and tongues 


CATHEDRAL STEPS. 


123 


of a community ; and self-contained — if he felt any 
pleasure at seeing you, ma pauvrette, he took good 
pains to conceal it.” 

‘‘Now, aunty, that is really too bad. You know he 
is brave, or he w^ould never have spoken as he did to 
the people in the temple yesterday, and last night he 
was troubled because he saw us coming away from 
mass. He did not understand why we had gone ; I 
am afraid he would think it very wrong under any cir- 
cumstances — at least for me.” 

“ I have not the slightest doubt of it, my dear. I 
read him through at a glance. He is one of those un- 
compromising fanatics, who are bringing down all this 
misery upon our poor France, — people who seem to 
be in love with martyrdom, and generally end in mak- 
ing martyrs of more than themselves. They have no 
pity, no tenderness.” 

“Then that is not the kind of a man Rene is, I feel 
sure. He was always gentle with me, and could never 
bear to see me hurt. You have no idea how good he is.” 

“ Good ? I have not the least doubt of that either, 
my dear. But it is a very uncomfortable kind of good- 
ness to live with, I can assure you. I know it all from 
my experience with my dear lost Albert. There was 
no reason why we should not have been happy ; we 
were young, we were rich, and we foved each other, 
but alas ! Albert could find no happiness in any occu- 
pation but psalm-singing. Songs and laughter he 
considered frivolous ; bright colors were an offense to 
his souh He never permitted himself to pay me a 
compliment ; he appeared to have forgotten how to 
smile. I fear I should have forgotten too, if the good 
Lord, who knows what is best for us, had not taken 
him away to the world for which, I am sure, he was 
far better fitted than this.” 


124 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“All good men are not like that, aunt Madeline. 
My uncle Godfrey was not, I know.” 

If there was any name she dreaded to hear from the 
lips of her niece, it was that of the martyred pastor. 
She positively started. 

“ I have not the least doubt M. Chevalier was a 
saint. Eglantine. But I cannot have that painful 
story brought up again. Tell me : if that young man 
was not a fanatic, why did he look at you last night as 
stupidly as if he were staring at the ugliest face in La 
Rochelle. If you are ready to forgive the fault, my 
beautiful, I am not.” 

“ Nonsense, aunt Madeline. I don’t suppose Rene 
noticed how I looked. He would love me just the 
same.” 

“ Then I protest he does not deserve to win my rose 
of roses ! Come, sly little one, confess ! Rosette says 
the young captain who assisted you yesterday was not 
so blind.” 

“ Rosette is a silly lady’s-maid. I only wish we knew 
he had not suffered for his kindness to us, aunt Made- 
line.” 

But the girl’s face glowed like a rose, as she turned 
away, for she was thinking how he had bidden her, if 
she thought of him at all, remember that he would 
gladly suffer thrice as much for the pleasure of having 
served her. She would not have been a woman if she 
had not contrasted the ardent glance which had ac- 
companied the words with the sad, anxious eyes fixed 
on her a few hours later. 

“M. Chevalier — to see madame and mademoiselle,” 
announced a footman upon the threshold. 

The next moment Eglantine’s white hand was in 
Rene’s big brown ones, and his tender, sorrowful eyes 
were once more searching her face. 


CHAPTER IX. 


“ DELILAH.” 

I N the same apartment where we saw them twenty- 
four hours before, playing their double game, M. 
Renau and his friend sat that afternoon over their 
wine. Henri, who had kept sedulously indoors all 
day, had just quitted the table in gloomy silence. 
The abbe shrugged his shoulders as he glanced toward 
the closed door. 

“ There is something wrong with our handsome 
young captain. He is not himself to-day.” 

‘‘ He has not been himself since he set out for that 
Huguenot preche yesterday. I wish you could find 
out what ails him, Louis.” 

“ He complains of his wound, but he will not permit 
me to examine it.” 

‘‘ Bah ! Henri is not a woman to mope over a pain. 
Whatever the hurt is, it is of the mind, not the body 
— be sure of that.” 

“ Then perhaps the little demoiselle has turned a 
cold shoulder upon him. When I ventured to rally 
him about her this morning, his eyes flashed fire.” 

“ I fear much more that he has caught an inkling of 
the truth. If so, our game is up, and we have a tem- 
pest on our hands. He has the grand passion in all 
its sublimity.” 

“ May it not be that he is incensed at the action of 
the authorities yesterday, and is brooding over the 
wrongs of his people ? ” 


(125) 


26 


J/OIV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


‘‘ I might think so if it was not for this sudden im- 
patience to leave La Rochelle. That tells a different 
story.” 

“ Then I will saunter round to madame’s, and see if 
she can throw any light upon the matter.” 

The red glow of sunset was on the carved panels of 
the room when M. I’Abbe returned. 

M. Renau gave a keen look into his face, and ut- 
tered an exclamation hardly suitable for clerical ears, 
though the priest bore it with composure. 

“Ha ! I see I was right. We have been betrayed,” 
said the courtier. 

“We have, monsieur. And by no less a person than 
the Huguenot lover himself. He saw our captain as- 
sisting the young lady in the press, and had an inter- 
view with him afterward.” 

“ Not a quarrel ? I would give a good deal to bring 
that about, Louis.” 

“ On the contrary, to .judge by the Huguenot’s re- 
port, the rencontre was a most amiable and satisfactory 
one.” 

“ Then Henri’s moodiness is easily explained, and 
we may as well throw up our cards.” 

“ Madame says not.” 

“She does not know my kinsman.” 

“ But she does know her niece, and insists that the 
captain’s looks and words have not been without 
effect. Her wits, moreover, have been invigorated by 
a little spice of temper. The young man had the im- 
prudence to antagonize her at the outset.” 

“The clumsy fool ! It would not be hard to outwit 
such a fellow as that. But Henri will be harder man- 
aging.” 

“Nevertheless, madame declares that the matter can 
be arranged. She has a scheme 4or putting the Hu- 


^^delilah: 


127 


gnenot out of the way, and if we can persuade M. 
Henri to remain a few days longer, of bringing the 
young people together unawares. If love and beauty 
do not carry the day after that, the world has changed, 
she says, since she was young.” 

“ She is romantic. But let us hear what she pro- 
poses. Stay ! Tell me first how the fellow contrived 
to offend her. I thought our old friend’s bonhomie 
was invulnerable.” 

“ It has one assailable point, monsieur. Madame 
has a fragment of that troublesome commodity, called 
a conscience, still in her possession, and woe be to the 
hand that disturbs it. M. Chevalier met them last 
night coming out of the cathedral, and there has been 
the mischief to pay. He openly reproached madame, 
in an interview this morning, with her backsliding, 
and the risk she had permitted her niece to incur, 
and poured out upon mademoiselle such a torrent of 
fanatical appeals and reminders that she is completely 
subdued, and has promised, sobbing, never to cross 
the threshold of the cathedral again. Madame is seri- 
ously discomposed. She would rather have seen the 
ghost of her dead husband, I verily believe, than have 
heard some of the things M. Chevalier said, but she 
vows all the same he shall not darken her doors again.” 

M. Renau showed his white teeth in a way that was 
not pleasant. The grimace was more like the smirk 
of a wild beast than a smile. 

“ So that is what comes of your plot to get the young 
lady to chapel, and tempt my kinsman to follow ? Bah, 
Louis ! We will make little progress in her conver- 
sion, or Henri’s either, till we have made a breach be- 
tween them and these Chevaliers. It is this I have had 
most in view in encouraging Henri’s passion for his 
friend’s betrothed, and I own I am loth to relinquish 


128. 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


it. How does madame propose to dispose of this fire* 
brand ? ” 

The priest drew a step nearer his patron. 

‘‘The authorities are incuiring for the young man 
who harangued the mob in the temple yesterday. 
Neither mademoiselle nor her foster-brother have 
taken any pains to conceal that he is the individual. 
Madame has only to lift her finger, and he is out of 
our way.” 

“ Ha ! she means mischief, does she ? Has she 
lodged information against him already ? ” 

“ Madame has not the nerve to give information 
against any one, monsieur, but her plan is perhaps as 
efficacious. M. Chevalier is to be privately warned of 
his danger, and advised to quit La Rochelle. He will 
do so, probably, without attempting to see mademoi- 
selle again. At any rate, madame will take care they 
do not meet, and that the young lady does not suspect 
the real cause of his non-appearance. She will be 
piqued, disappointed. In this state of mind she is to 
meet M. le Capitaine again. What say you ? ” 

“ Madame is clever,” smiled the courtier, as he rose 
leisurely, and took his hat down from a peg. “Was 
the young man so confiding as to entrust her with his 
address ?” 

“ He was too cautious for that, monsieur. But I 
made sure our captain had it, or would find means to 
obtain it, when he knew his friend was in danger, and 
I did not err.” 

“ Have you spoken to Henri already ? ” 

“M. le Capitaine is on his way to warn his friend.” 

M. Renau uttered a contemptuous exclamation, and 
the round eyes of his companion opened in dismay. 

“ You surely do not intend to lodge actual informa* 
tion against him?” he inquired anxiously. 


^DELILAHr 


129 

His patron’s answer was a short, satirical laugh, as 
he quitted the room. 

The sunshine was streaming in through the windows 
of Madame Cartel’s salon the next morning, and Eglan- 
tine was bending over the table, filling a bowl with 
roses, when the door opened to admit a visitor. Ex- 
pecting Rene, she glanced up quickly, and met, instead, 
the melancholy gaze of Henri La Roche. There was 
a second of lovely confusion, and then, letting her 
flowers slip to the floor, she advanced to meet him. 

“ Rene told me you had left La Rochelle. I hope 
you have not suffered for your kindness to us, M. 
Henri ?” She held out her hand shyly. 

Captain La Roche bowed low over the tremulous 
fingers, but did not offer to touch them, as he had 
done two days before. 

“ It was my intention to leave for home yesterday, 
but I was prevented — fortunately, as it has since turned 
out. I am the bearer to you of a letter from Rene, 
mademoiselle, which will explain everything, and 
which he was extremel}^ anxious I should place in your 
own hands. It will be my pleasure to carry back to him 
any message you may wish to send.” 

There was no mistaking the change in his manner, 
so stately in its courtesy, so distant in its kindness. 
Eglantine’s v/ondering eyes had been watching him 
intently as he spoke ; Eglantine’s quick girlish brain 
had been coming to an indignant conclusion. “ He 
has repented his attention to me since he has learned 
who I am. The foster-daughter of pastor Chevalier is 
very much beneath the notice of the sieur La Roche,” 
she thought hotly. “ Oh, do not be afraid, M. le Capi- 
taine, that I will presume on anything you have been 
so imprudent as to say to me. I am quite as proud as 
you.” And the high-born demoiselles of her father’s 


130 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


house need not have been ashamed of Eglantine, as 
she took the letter coldly from Henri’s hand and 
walked with it to the window. She did not vouchsafe 
him a second glance, and Captain La Roche, smitten 
with unbearable pain by the proud, hurt curves of the 
soft lips, kept his eyes sedulously turned away. A low 
cry of dismay soon forced him to look up. 

“ Rene not come to see me again ! Rene in dan- 
ger ! ” 

The letter had fluttered to Eglantine’s feet, her lips 
were quivering. She gazed at her visitor with startled, 
tear-filled eyes. 

Henri was glad to hide his face for a moment, as he 
stooped to recover the fallen paper. 

“ I am very sorry. I would give anything if this 
had not happened,” he said in a low, troubled voice. 

She went on without heeding him. 

“ I must see him again ! I cannot let Rene leave 
me like this, w’^hen we have not met in so many years, 
and we have only begun to talk to each other. Aunt 
Madeline was by all the time yesterday. Rene made 
her angry with me. I promised everything he asked, 
because I thought he would be here to help me, and 
take care of me if they worried me too much. He 
said he would come again. Rene always keeps his 
promises.” 

Did she know the sting every word held for the man 
before her ? Henri kept his eyes upon the floor. His 
voice was low and stern as he answered : 

You will scarcely exact the fulfilment of that prom- 
ise now, mademoiselle. Your affection for him ” 

Eglantine caught up a rose from the table, and be- 
gan with quick, uncertain fingers to tear the ruby 
leaves from the golden heart. 

“ It would break my heart if anything should hap- 


**DELILAHr 


31 


pen to Rene — my good Rene. But he need not have 
told me himself that he dared not come again. He 
might have left it for me to say he should not run the 
risk. I have been counting the hours till he would 
come again. Why did he speak to the people at all if 
it was to come in between him and me ? I had more 
of a claim on him than those strangers.” 

“You forget that he could not foresee the trouble 
into which the action would bring him.” 

She flashed him an indignant look. “ As if that 
would have made any difference with Rene ! ” she said 
loftily. “You know as well as I do, M. Henri, that if 
he thought it his duty, he would have done it all the 
same. He would go through fire and water to do any- 
thing he thought right. He is the best man I ever 
knew except my uncle Godfrey.” Her voice quivered a 
moment. “ Why does he not leave La Rochelle at once 
if the danger is so great ? What is he waiting for .? ” 

Captain La Roche looked embarrassed. There had 
been a sharp dispute between himself and Rene on 
that very point the night before. 

“ What keeps him here if he cannot come to me 
again ? ” repeated the girl imperiously. 

“He expects a case of books and instruments by 
the Southampton schooner, mademoiselle. The cap- 
tain will deliver the package to no one else, and Rene 
says they are necessary to his work, and he must run 
whatever risk there is to obtain them.” 

“And he will endanger himself for that, yet he will 
not come and see me again ? ” Eglantine fixed her 
dark eyes, deep with an inscrutable expression, upon 
her companion’s face. 

Henri made no answer. However sharply he might 
differ with Rene himself, at this bar, his lips were loy- 
ally sealed. 


32 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“Perhaps he will go, also, and see the weaver’s 
child of whom he told me yesterday ? ” Eglantine’s 
voice trembled once more with indignant pain. 

Captain La Roche’s eyes were fixed upon the floor, 
his lips firmly closed. 

“ Have the goodness to answer me, monsieur. Will 
Rene go and see the sick child ? ” 

Henri bit his lip. He began to wish he had let Rene 
come and make his own excuses. 

“ It is against my entreaties and expostulations,” 
he said coldly. 

Eglantine gave him a quick, searching look. 

“ Indeed, monsieur ! Perhaps it was your entreaties 
and expostulations, then, that proved more effectual 
in my case. Rene was not wont to think first of him- 
self, and then of me.” 

She had drawn the bow at a venture, but the color 
that mounted to his brow owned the truth, and she 
uttered an indignant cry. 

“ Nay, it is not generous to blame me for taking 
thought for his safety,” began Henri in a pained voice; 
but she motioned him to be silent. 

“ Oh, I do not blame you, monsieur. It is very easy 
to understand why his safety seemed of so much con- 
sequence in your sight, and my happiness of so little. 
I am only sorry I have annoyed you with my distress. 
And — Giles should not have kept you standing here. 
Aunt Madeline is sick to-day and receives no visitors.” 

She was gathering her flowers together, evidently 
preparing to leave the room. He caught her firmly 
by the wrist. 

“You shall not leave me like this. Eglantine. I 
have done what seemed to me the best and kindest 
thing for you in taking thought for Rene. You shall 
not condemn me unheard. He would indeed have 


^DELILAH." 


33 


kept his word to you at any cost. He would at least 
have made the effort to come to you ; but I proved to 
him how little likelihood there was of his being able 
to reach the house in safety, and promised if he would 
write, to put the letter into your own hands myself. 
Did I so deeply err, mademoiselle ? Would the grati- 
fication of seeing him for a few moments have com- 
pensated you for the peril he must have incurred ? 
Remember, that he could go anywhere else in La Ro- 
chelle more safely than he could come here ; that his 
interest in you is known, and that there are no doubt 
spies continually hanging about the house.” 

She freed herself with a hasty gesture. 

“ That will do, monsieur ; I do not need to be taught 
my duty to Rene — by you. It is something to know 
he would have come if you had not prevented him.” 

Henri turned, and took up his hat. 

“Is that the only message you have to send?” he 
asked coldly. 

The tone frightened Eglantine. It was one thing to 
make him feel the smart of her resentment ; it was 
quite another to find herself under the cloud of his 
anger. But she was too proud to show it. 

“ I have sent no message,” she answered, in a tone 
as icy as his, and the door closed, and she found her- 
self alone. 

Nannette, sewing in the sunny window seat in the 
chamber above was startled a moment later, to have 
the door hastily opened, and her young mistress hurry 
in, and throw herself weeping into her arms. 

“ Alas ! alas ! what has gone wrong now ? ” she 
asked, dropping her needle, and laying her trembling 
old hand on the bowed, quivering head. 

But Eglantine only sobbed on for some time with- 
out speaking. It would have been very hard for her 


134 


THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


to tell what emotion touched the deepest fount of 
tears ; she only knew that she felt very miserable and 
forsaken, and that under all her alarm and disappoint- 
ment about Rene, and her anger against Henri, there 
was a vague sense of loss, a heavy pang which she did 
not care to analyze. 

I don’t believe anybody loves me very much ex- 
cept you, Nannette,” ■ she whispered once, nestling 
closer to her old nurse’s heart, but Nannette only 
smiled and stroked her head. She had heard such 
speeches before, and knew the storm would spend 
itself ere long, and she could wait ; but it is to be 
feared that she had only a very confused impression 
of Rene’s danger, and Captain La Roche’s unkind- 
ness, and her darling’s unhappiness, when at last the 
story sobbed itself out. Two attempts at consolation 
were summarily dismissed. 

“ I am sure you would not wish Master Rene to run 
any risk,” and “ It was certainly very kind of the young 
sieur to come and tell you ; I hope you were not rude 
to him, my young lady ” — were speeches which both 
proved so unpalatable, that the old nurse held her 
peace, marvelling. But at last, the passionate flow of 
tears ceased, the girlish head was lifted, and a faint 
smile glittered through the tears trembling on the 
long lashes. 

“ I believe I would feel better for a walk. Can you 
go with me, Nannette? You said this morning that 
the sunshine would do you good.” 

“ I doubt not I could make out to walk a little way, 
my young lady. But what scheme have you on foot ? 
Not a step will I go till I hear the why and the where- 
abouts of the expedition.” 

“ As if I would take you along, if I was going into any 
mischief, you dear old sober Nannette. It is only to see 


'DELILAH. 


135 


the weaver’s wife, Rene told us about yesterday. You 
know he said he hoped we would be friends to her, 
and go and see her sometimes; he said he thought she 
could do me good. That was not very complimentary 
of him, but I forgive him now. And I mean to go 
there this very afternoon.” 

‘‘In the hopes of seeing Master Rene himself! It 
does not need a magnifying-glass to detect that, my 
young lady.” 

Eglantine laughed blithely as she rose to her feet. 

“ And if we did meet him, Nannette, what harm 
would there be? You know you would be as happy 
as I. But indeed there is no chance of it, for he has 
been there already to-day. I only want to send him a 
letter. M. Kenri was so cross, I could think of noth- 
ing to say, and you know that was not right, not to 
send Rene any answer, and this is the only way I can 
think of to get a message to him.” 

“Then be sure you tell him not to adventure himself 
for you, but to leave La Rochelle as quickly as pos- 
sible ; I only wish we were going along with him.” 

Eglantine did not answer as she passed on into the 
inner room. A resolute look, which the old woman 
did not see, had settled down upon her fair face. With 
tremulous haste she put out her writing materials 
upon the table. “ I must see him again. I will see him 
again,” she was whispering to herself, “ in spite of aunt 
Madeline and the gendarmes and all of them. M. 
Henri shall see that he cares for me.” A letter was 
always a difficult undertaking to her girlish brain and 
unused fingers, and this one proved especially hard to 
write. But it was finished in time. 

“ Do not leave La Rochelle without seeing me again 
— if you love me, Rene. I must speak to you. Every 
Wednesday I go to take an embroidery lesson at the 


136 ^Oiv THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


candy-shop opposite the cathedral. Nannette goes 
with me. It is her cousin who keeps the shop, and his 
wife gives me my lesson. They are both Huguenots. 
There v/ould not be any danger in your coming there, 
would there ? We will be there by 10 o’clock to- 
morrow. Do not disappoint me, if you can help it. I 
need you, Rene. How am I to keep my promise, if 
you do not help me ? ” 

Her heart smote her a little as she penned those last 
words. Would they not imply to Rene a danger that 
did not exist? Would not that appeal, “ I need you,” 
bring him to her in the teeth of any peril, at any cost ? 
But then it was certain to prove so much more potent 
with him than that truer one, “I want you,” and she 
let it stand. “ I do need him,” she argued with her- 
self, as she folded and sealed the little note. “ It is 
always easier to do right after I have been talking 
with Rene, and he will run no more risk coming there 
than going to see that weaver’s child.” 

And so, late that night, when Rene slipped around 
to say good-bye to his friends in the attic, the young 
mother put the letter into his hand. 

“ It was such a beautiful young lady as brought it,” 
she said, looking wistfully into the surgeon’s startled 
face. “ She said as how she was your sister, monsieur, 
but that you were not living under the same roof, and 
she had no other way to get a letter to you. And she 
brought the children such loads of bon-bons that they 
took her for a fairy princess, and indeed she did not 
look unlike one, with her lovely face and her beautiful 
clothes, and that sunshiny look in her eyes, as though 
she had never known the meaning of trouble. The lit- 
tle lad seemed to know she was some way akin to you, 
for he let her hold him in her lap, and stared at her 
with his round, black eyes, without crying once. And 


'Delilah: 


137 


she was so sweet and gentle with him, and let the 
others press around her, and said you had told her 
about us, and the tears actually started to her beauti- 
ful eyes, when I told her how hard the struggle had 
been, and how near we were to the brink when you 
found us. She said she would remember it if ever she 
was tempted herself, and she begged us, if you did 
not come again, to get that letter to you some way to- 
night, as it was of importance.” 

Rene did not lie down that night. To do Eglantine 
justice, she could not know, when she penned those 
three words, “ I need you,” the agony of the fear, the 
energy of the love she would awaken. How could she 
dream that through the long hours while she slept, a 
great heart would keep anxious watch for her with 
ceaseless prayer? 

But she felt a little frightened when she woke the 
next morning, and remembered what she had done. 
She had not dared to confess to her old bonne what 
she had written. Somehow the reasoning which had 
proved so satisfactory to her own mind would not, she 
felt sure, stand the scrutiny of Nannette’s reproachful 
eyes. How would it look to Rene? Would he be very 
angry with her? Nannette could not understand the 
haste of her young mistress to be off the next morning, 
and had much ado to accommodate her feeble steps to 
the quick, young feet, as they threaded their way 
through the streets. Eglantine’s chatter ceased sud- 
denly when they came in sight of the candy-shop. 
Michael Bonneau waited them in the doorway, smiling 
good-humoredly. 

“ There’s a friend of yours in the back parlor,” he 
said to his kinswoman, “ a big, strapping fellow from 
the hills, who says he has an appointment to meet you 
here. What ! you know nothing of it ? Well, that’s 


138 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


odd, but the wife had him in as a matter of course, 
and you can see him for yourself.” 

Eglantine had not waited to hear more after the 
first sentence. Much to Michael’s amazement, she 
brushed past him into the shop, flew past Antoinette, 
open-mouthed in the dark entry, and burst into the 
little parlor behind the shop. A tall, broad-shouldered 
peasant, leaning against the mantel-shelf, looked up 
with a quiet smile as she entered. 

“ Rene ! is it really you ? ” - She stopped short and 
surveyed him with doubtful eyes. 

He came forward and touched his lips gravely to her 
brow. 

“ Does that convince you. Eglantine ?” 

It ought. No one else would be so impertinent, 
sir. Oh ! Rene, I am so glad to see you again. I knew 
you would come to me when I asked you. But hov.'- 
funny you look. Was it really necessary for you to 
wear that disguise ? ” 

There was a gendarme in the shop as I passed in. 
Are you mad?” laying his hand quickly on her lips, 
as she would have uttered a scream. “ There is no need 
to be frightened. Eglantine. Only for the sake of 
these good people, as well as my own, I must not be 
surprised here. Tell me what your letter meant. Have 
they tried to make you go to mass again ? ” 

“ No, no,” rather nervously. “ Aunt Madeline is very 
angry, but she has not said anything about it since. 
How long are you going to be in La Rochelle, Rene ? ” 
I was ready to leave last night when I got your 
note. The boat came in last evening. Eglantine, what 
new sorrow or trouble threatens you? You said you 
had something to tell me.” 

Her eyes fell beneath his inexorable gaze, 

I did have a great deal to say to you, Rene, but 


'Delilah: 


139 


you are so cold and unkind, you put it all out of my 
head. Was it such a sin to want to see you again, and 
to let M. Henri see you did care for me ? I am sure it 
is not any more dangerous for you to come here than 
to go and see that weaver’s child. How could I know 
you would be ready to leave before my note reached 
you ? ■’ 

The man, whose own words were clear as crystal, 
who would have scorned to save his life by an equivo- 
cation, dropped her hand. 

“You have deceived me and worked upon my feel- 
ings, to show your power over me.” He spoke in a 
slow, pained voice. “ I would not have believed it of 
you, Eglantine.” 

She had expected a rebuke, but this deep grief was 
something terrible. She caught his hand as he was 
turning away. 

“ Do not look like that, Rene. Indeed, I did mean 
everything I wrote in my letter.” 

“You said you needed me. Eglantine.” 

“ I did need you, Rene. I need you every day.” 

He shook his head. There was no wiping out the 
deception, and tender as was the plea, the truth burnt 
itself, like a seething iron, into his soul, that it was 
only a selfish affection which could have set his love 
this test. 

They were both relieved when Nannette hurried 
into the room. A sudden suspicion of the truth had 
flashed upon the old woman, and she had been busy 
without, taking anxious precautions with her kins- 
people. 

“ Mademoiselle, I am ashamed of you,” she exclaimed, 
as her young mistress ran laughing to meet her. But 
Eglantine pretended to misunderstand her. 

“ It is Rene, Nannette. Do you not know him ? 


140 


HOJV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


Our good Rene, who used to save you so many steps, 
and would never do wrong even when I tempted him 
— though you often scolded him — you know you did, 
Nannette, when you ought to have scolded me.” 

But Nannette put the coaxing face sternly aside. 

“ Ay, ay, I mind who it is well enough. Alas, Master 
Rene, I never thought to say I was sorry to see you. 
Nay, mademoiselle, there is no use to try and blind 
me ; I know your enticing ways too well. You said 
something in that letter yesterday to make Master 
Rene come here. Never a step would I have gone 
with you, if I had guessed the truth. For shame not 
to think of Madame Chevalier and the little one, if 
you were willing to stake your own happiness on the 
pleasure of a moment. And shame upon you, too. 
Master Rene, for heeding her. If the child had no 
better conception of what bolts and fetters mean, I 
mind you are better informed.” 

The sudden reversal of blame from her darling’s 
head to his was so like old times, that the surgeon 
smiled, in spite of his sadness. He was too generous 
to give the explanation that would have cleared him- 
self and further implicated Eglantine. The girl recog- 
nized the forbearance, and took courage from the 
momentary unbending of his lips. 

‘‘ I will not have Rene scolded any more,” she said, 
laying her soft hand on her nurse’s lips. “Of course 
he would not have come, Nannette, if he had not 
thought I needed him. He would never think of doing 
anything just to please himself or me. But he is 
here now, and I believe he is really glad — though, of 
course, he is too proud to own it.” She stole a bright, 
pleading look up at the grave face watching her. 
“ And I am far too happy to be frightened by either 
his frowns or yours.” 


'DELILAW^ 


14 


But Nannette once more put her gravely away. 

“You must leave the house at once, Master Rene,’* 
she said seriously. “ The gendarme you passed in the 
shop has a sick, old mother, up-stairs, and may be in 
again any moment. Michael says he looked at you 
curiously, as you went by, and who knows but he may 
be one of those looking for you ? My cousins are in 
dread lest you should be found in their house.” 

Rene looked at Eglantine. “If there is really noth- 
ing I can do for you, I must go,” he said. 

A sudden cloud fell upon the fair face. Would he 
really leave her like this, after all she had done to 
procure the interview ? 

“ Not already, Rene,” she said reproachfully. “ Why, 
we have scarcely said anything to each other yet.” 

He gave her a strange look. “ Would you really 
like me to stay after what Nannette has told us ? ” 
he asked in a low voice. 

She pouted like a crossed child. “About the gen- 
darme? I did not think you would be so easily 
frightened, Rene. Nannette is nervous, and Michael 
Bonneau and his wife are selfish cowards. You are 
certainly safer here than in the street.” 

She was not really indifferent to his safety ; but the 
flippant tone, contrasted with Nannette’s urgent, anx- 
ious glance, stung him to the soul. 

“ You may be right,” he said, turning away coldly ; 
“ but I dare not risk my liberty on the supposition. 
Eglantine.” 

“ Dare not ! ” 

He wheeled and faced her with a look which made 
her suddenly remember that his rare passions as a boy 
had not been pleasant things to encounter. 

“Yes, dare not. Eglantine. Thank God, my life is 
not my own to lay down at the bidding of a woman’s 


142 


/lOlV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


vanity. There are too many who have claims upon 
it.” 

“You take great pains to let me see I am not one 
of them,” was the retort. Eglantine was now far too 
angry to care what she said or did. 

Rene put down his passion with a strong hand, and 
looked at her searchingly. There was no relenting in 
her face, and he laid his hand upon the latch. 

“If you think that, there is no need of further words 
between us,” he said in a stricken voice. 

But the girl was not prepared to let him go like this. 
She leaned her head against the door to prevent his 
opening it, and flashed out into tearful upbraiding. 

“You would have gone away from La Rochelle 
without seeing me. You are only here now because 
you thought there was danger of m)'' going to mass, 
not because I wanted you. You take more risks for 
strangers than you are willing to take for me. It is 
just as aunt Madeline said it would be. You do not 
care for me. You care for nothing but your religion.” 

Pain and astonishment had thus far kept Rene si- 
lent, but now he found voice. 

“ Have you permitted Madame Cartel to accuse me 
to you. Eglantine ?” 

And at this actual grievance poor Eglantine’s pas- 
sion flamed out again. 

“There it is again. That is the way you misunder- 
stand and misjudge me. You think I have listened 
to aunt Madeline, when I fought for you to the last. 
It is you yourself who has convinced me that she was 
right. You have done nothing but blame and find 
fault with me ever since I met you outside the cathe- 
dral the other night. You are angry with me now, 
you know you are, for sending for you when there 
was no real necessity, and for being glad and happy 


••DELILAUr 143 

to see you. You would like to make me as solemn and 
strait-laced as you are yourself. You ” 

“ I will finish the sentence for you, Eglantine. I 
have loved you with every beat of my heart as far 
back as I can remember, as no one else will ever be 
able to do. I have planned and toiled for you all 
these years, and watched over you from afar with my 
prayers, and in return I have this. You feel defrauded 
because I love God better — because my loyalty to 
Him forbids me to sacrifice my life to your vanity.” 

There is no charge tbat a vain woman so deeply re- 
sents as that of vanity. Eglantine had been deeply 
touched by the appeal, but the last word was the fly 
in Rene’s box of ointment, and she turned coldly 
away. 

‘‘ I do not understand a love that is always finding 
fault and holding up defects, Rene. No one ever 
blamed me so before. Everybody seemed satisfied 
enough with me until you came. I would like to be- 
lieve in your love for me, but you give poor proof 
of it.” 

“And yet I do love you,” he said very gently. 

She glanced up and surprised his deep, patient heart 
in his eyes. The next moment she was sobbing on his 
shoulder, and the struggle had ended, as all along he 
had known it must end. 

“ Then why do you try to make me think you do not 
care ? ” she m.urmured, and it was so characteristic that 
her apology should take the form of a reproach, that 
it did not occur to Rene to resent it. Yet he sighed 
as he stroked the soft masses of wavy hair. 

“ If you would only drop this childishness. Eglantine, 
and show yourself the brave, true woman God meant 
you to be. We have fallen upon troublous times, when 
we must keep hardly what we keep at all. How can I 


144 


nOH^ THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


feel safe when I see you carried about by every wind 
of impulse ? ” 

She shook her head, without looking up. “That is 
where you misjudge me, Rene, I am not fickle, I have 
promised you that I will not go to mass again, and 
you will see that I can keep my word.” 

“ That is but one of the many shoals around you. 
Eglantine. It is the moored heart, not the dauntless 
one, that will ride the storm safely through. If I could 
know you anchored to the truth, it would indeed set 
my heart at rest.” 

There was an appeal in his voice, but she did not 
answer it. Nannette, who had more than once reiter- 
ated her anxious entreaties for Rene to depart, now 
made her voice heard in shrill remonstrance. 

“It is you who are yielding to temptation. Master 
Rene. For God’s sake, do not delay any longer.” 

But even as she spoke there came the tramp of feet 
and the hum of angry voices from the shop without. 
Michael’s bell rang sharply. 

“ It is the warning,” gasped the old nurse. Her face 
was as white as her carefully bleached cap. She lifted 
the tapestry at one end of the room, and pointed to an 
inner door. Rene had barely time to step across the 
threshold and draw the bolt after him, when the tapes- 
try fell, and Nannette hastened to answer a loud sum- 
mons at the outer door. Eglantine was still clinging 
to him, half paralyzed with fright. 

“Do not be afraid,” he whispered. “If the worst 
comes, I can jump from the window, and make my 
escape; but they may never see the door.” 

She did not answer. Her dilated eyes were fixed on 
the wooden panels which alone separated him from his 
pursuers. On the other side of the door Michael Bon- 
neau’s voice, and those of two of the city police, could 


'DELILAHr 


145 


be heard in sharp altercation. Rene stepped noise- 
lessly across the room, and placed his companion on a 
settle beside the hearth. 

“You must compose yourself,” he said firmly. “If 
I am compelled to leave you, you must be brave, and 
do what you can to help me and these good people. 
It is for them I am most anxious.” 

She interrupted him with a low, hysterical laugh. 

“ Delilah,” she whispered, and then he saw it was a 
Scripture scene, the strong man struggling in the grasp 
of his captors, and the beautiful, evil face of the Phi- 
listine looking on. 

“ It is my picture,” moaned Eglantine with chatter- 
ing teeth. “ It is I who tempted you here, Rene. I, 
who have betrayed you.” 

He almost forgot his own danger as he stepped be- 
tween her and the hateful picture, and took her cold 
hands in his. 

“ Never let that thought cross your mind, again, 
Eglantine. You know you would never have had me 
come if you had dreamed of this. Promise me, if any- 
thing happens, that you will not make your life mis- 
erable with remorse.” 

“ I cannot,” she moaned. “ Oh, Rene, if anything 
happens to you, I will feel as if it was I who mur- 
dered you. I will never dare to look aunt Monique 
or Agnes in the face.” 

“ Hush ! ” he said gravely. “ My life is in God’s 
hands, not yours. Eglantine. If He has more work 
for me to do, I am as safe here as in the Cevanol 
glens. Listen ! The sounds in the next room are 
growing fainter. They have searched and found 
nothing ; now they are leaving it. My little sister, I 
am sorry you should have had such an ordeal as this.” 

She put her face down on the cushion, and burst 


146 


BO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


into low, quiet weeping. He knew the tears would do 
her good, and was standing by, making no effort to 
check them, when Nannette came in. She looked years 
older for the strain of the last few moments. 

“ They have gone, but they are only half satisfied,” 
she said. “ Michael is sure they will watch the house. 
Master Rene. He and Antoinette are fixing you up 
another disguise, and are going to slip you out the 
back way. Mademoiselle ” 

But Rene’s look stayed the reproach on her lips. 
Eglantine lifted her head. 

“ There is no need to say anything to me, Nannette. 
I am punished enough. Rene,” as he held out his 
hand in farewell, “there is something I want to say 
to you. I did not mean to tell it, for fear you would 
be vexed, but now I will not keep anything back. 
My grandfather has been down to Bearn ; my father’s 
people are all dead, and the chateau has passed into 
other hands. He thinks there can be no danger now 
in my taking my own name. And he wants me to 
come back to Nismes with aunt Madeline next month, 
and be known as his granddaughter.” 

There was no change in the brown, earnest face 
bent over her. 

“You are glad of this, Eglantine?” 

“ I am glad to have a name,” she said simply. “It 
is not pleasant just to be called mademoiselle, and 
have people whispering that there is a mystery about 
you. It did not matter in the old happy days, Rene, 
when I was a child with you and my aunt Monique ; 
but it has been very hard here lately.” 

“Hn the world, yet not of it.’ Yes, I can imagine,” 
he said softly to himself. 

She regarded him wistfully. 

“ Are you angry about it, Rene ? ” 


**DELILAHr 


H7 


I have no right to be,” he answered sadly. “ Even if 
they were alive, I do not suppose your Catholic relatives 
could interfere with you, now you are old enough to 
choose your faith for yourself. And yet Mademoiselle 
Bertrand seems farther away from me than my foster- 
sister Eglantine, and I fear our cottage will look plain 
to you after your grandfather’s house in Nismes.” 

No, no, Rene. Do you suppose I could ever forget 
how you took me in, a nameless baby ? Why, my aunt 
Monique is- the only mother I have known, and I could 
not love you better if you were my own brother. I 
shall make my grandfather bring me up very soon to 
the Cevennes, you shall see.” 

“Thank you. Eglantine. It will be a happy day to 
my mother when she folds you in her arms again, and 
Agnes is always talking of you. Now I want you to 
promise me one thing before I go.” 

Was she afraid of what he was going to ask ? The 
color came and went in her cheek. His grasp upon 
her hand grew tighter. 

“We can never tell, in these changeful times, what 
may happen before we meet again. Promise me, if 
you ever need aid or counsel, you will let me serve 
you as though I were indeed your own brother, — that 
if, at any time, your grandfather’s house comes to be 
not a safe or happy home for you, you will come at 
once to ours, as though my mother were indeed your 
own mother. Whatever new ties you make, we will 
always feel that God gave you to us.” 

Eglantine’s smile made a sudden rainbow of her 
tears. “ I think I must have done it, even if you had 
not made me promise,” she whispered. 

He took her in his arms for a moment, kissed her 
solemnly between the bright, wistful eyes, and answered 
Michael Bonneau’s summons from the other room. 


CHAPTER X. 


“wings as a dove.” 

I T was “the time of the first ripe grapes” in the 
Cevanol hills. Every morning, the gatherers 
went out to the vintage ; every evening, they came 
home laden. All day, the mellow sunshine brooded 
upon the purpling clusters, making wine. Agnes 
Chevalier sat on the cushioned window-seat of the 
old hall at the chateau, with a volume of sermons 
upon her lap. The quiet afternoon sunshine filled 
the room. The rusty armor and antlered spoils upon 
the walls glowed with passing brightness. An aged 
greyhound slept at her feet. For nearly an hour 
there had been no sound but the rise and fall of her 
low voice as she read, and the slow pacing to and fro 
of monsieur’s feet as he listened. Not once had the 
young eyes wandered from the page, but now the old 
man laid his hand tenderly on the bent head. 

“ Put up the book, and come out upon the terrace, 
child. Henri says I keep you too much in the shadow 
of my own serious thoughts, and perhaps he is right. 
The evening is fair, and we will walk to meet him. 
Ah!” as she sprang up with a willing smile, “I 
thought that would console you, little book-worm. 
My soldier has won your heart by his praises of 
Rene’s doings at La Rochelle.” 

A flush of shy delight suffused the cfiild’s face. 
“Rene will not let me talk about it, monsieur, but 
M. Henri says it was as brave a thing as he ever saw 
done upon the field.” 

(148) 


WINGS AS A DOVEr 


149 


“I can well believe it, little one.’" 

“ And my mother is sure it is because the people 
offered no resistance, that the good old minister has 
not suffered more.” 

“ Has Rene learned his sentence ? ” 

“ He had a letter before he went away to Anduze 
this morning. They have banished him from France, 
but my brother says that is better than being kept in 
prison, or sent to the galleys.” 

“Far better.” There was a slight quiver in mon- 
sieur’s old voice. “ We have all cause to thank God 
that our good doctor is safe at home after his adven- 
ture. But look you, my child. Dame Martineau says 
she saw you talking yesterday with that strange, half- 
crazy fellow who hangs about the ruins of the old 
temple. I like it not. Why, not one of our maids 
would go near him.” 

“ Do you mean Ishmael ? Oh, I am not afraid of 
Ishmael,” answered the child, glancing up quickly. 
“He used to be afraid of me, and steal away, when I 
took my knitting to sit in the sunshine on the old 
steps, but now he will stand and watch me, though he 
will never touch the food my mother sends him. I do 
not think he is crazy,” she added thoughtfully, as she 
and her old friend strolled down the flower-bordered 
terrace toward the gate. “ Only weighed down with 
some secret sin or trouble. Yesterday, when I found 
him, he was sitting with his face in his hands, mutter- 
ing, ‘ No forgiveness — no blotting out,’ — and when I 
told him that though our sins were as scarlet, God 
could make them white as snow, he shook his head 
and went away. I am sure, though, he would not 
hurt any one. The other day, when farmer Darcy’s 
cow came after me, he ran out ^nd helped me.” 

Monsieur shook his head. 


150 


NOJV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


“Nevertheless, the old temple is but a mournful 
place for thee to take thy work, and this stranger not 
a meet companion for thee. Henri shall walk with 
you this evening to the cottage-gate. Look ! there is 
a cloud of dust down the road now. If my old eyes 
do not cheat me, it is our horseman back already, and 
not alone.” 

“ He brings M. Rey with him, monsieur.” 

“ What ! Rene’s friend, the young pastor from Gui- 
enne? That is indeed good tidings. But see, child, 
they stop at the gate. He is shaking his head, and 
Henri beckons to thee.” 

The child flew like an arrow from a bow, and as he 
followed more slowly down the steps of the terrace, 
monsieur saw the young minister stoop from his sad- 
dle and place a packet in the child’s hand. 

“ I would like to stop and see Rene, but I am due 
at a pr^che in the northern Cevennes to-morrow, and 
must ride hard all night,” he was saying, as the old 
gentleman joined them. 

“ How speeds your work among those desolate 
hills ? ” inquired the sieur La Roche. 

The face of the pastor saddened, as he turned to 
grasp the outstretched hand. 

“ Slowly, monsieur. The persecution has been so 
severe, that it is with difficulty I can persuade the 
people to assemble for religious service. I can but 
speak wherever and whenever I find opportunity, and 
hope the panic-stricken hearts will finally gain cour- 
age. The presses of Paris are not still,” he added, 
his dark eyes kindling with enthusiasm, as he pointed 
to the packet in Agnes’ hand. 

“You have seen the bishop’s letter to our ministers, 
demanding recognition of their spiritual rule, and 
submission to their authority. There is an answet 


WINGS AS A dove: 


£51 


from Charenton, bold and ardent, yet prudent, which 
will soon be scattered broadcast throughout France. 
The pamphlet is entitled ‘A Circular Letter to the 
Clergy,’ and is published anonymously. But enemies 
and friends alike will recognize the hand that has al- 
ready dealt such fearless blows for the truth.” 

“ M. Claude’s ? His pen is ever ready to defend the 
truth. But we have been troubled lately by what we 
heard of the offer from the University of Groningen.” 

“ He has refused the invitation, monsieur. Flatter- 
ing as was the offer, it could not tempt him to desert 
our Church in her affliction.” 

‘^That is indeed a gleam of light on this dark and 
cloudy day. It was but this afternoon the child read 
to me from his sermons, and I sighed to think we 
might lose so bold and wise a leader. I will hear this 
new paper of his before I sleep. Henri,” turning to his 
son, who sat moodily by upon his horse, flicking at the 
daisies in the grass, ‘‘ hear you the good news ? ” 

“Ay, my father, the pastor gave it to me as we 
came along. I wish, monsieur,” he added, glancing at 
the young minister, “you could persuade my father 
that such grave treatises are not meet studies for a 
fair young head of thirteen. Agnes knows more theol- 
ogy now than I.” 

“That is not saying much,” interposed the sieur La 
Roche with a sad smile. “ And yet perhaps he is 
right, Fulcrand. The child is so like her father that 
I sometimes forget I am talking to her, and not to 
him.” 

The minister laid his hand tenderly on the sunny 
head. It was in his father’s house in Nismes that 
Monique Chevalier and her children had taken ref- 
uge in the days of their first sorrow. He was but 
two years older than Rene, and at once there had 


152 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


sprung up between them one of those rare spiritual 
friendships which overlap the ties of blood, and glance 
forward to the time when the circumstances of birth 
shall be forgotten, and the bond that binds heart to 
heart shall be the bond that unites each heart to the 
Master. 

“ She has chosen the good part — it shall not be taken 
from her,” he murmured, as he stooped, and set a 
solemn kiss on the grave, pure brow. Something in 
the sweet eyes, lifted to his, had suddenly made her 
as dear as Rene himself. How could he know she 
would keep the words in her heart, like a gift — far less 
divine, that those tender, girlish feet were to outrun 
him in the race, and that when years hence, his martyr- 
soul should pass in rejoicing through the gates, Rene 
Chevalier’s young sister should await him before the 
throne, palm in hand? Yet, as he rode slowly away, 
he turned once and looked back, with strange pre- 
science. The three still stood at the gate — monsieur 
in his quiet evening-dress, with white uncovered head, 
the picture of stately rest after labor — the young sol- 
dier, seated upon his horse, instinct with life and en- 
ergy — and between the two, the fair slight girl, with 
her eyes lifted to the encircling hills, and her golden 
hair falling like a halo about her face. What was to 
be their lot ? Through what several doors would they 
enter in, — by what long and toilsome ways would each 
reach the goal ? The question rose involuntarily to 
his lips, but quick as thought came the answer : 
‘‘What is that to thee? Follow thou Me.” And the 
young pastor put spurs to his horse, and sped upon 
his way. 

“ Your brow is more overcast than usual,” M. La 
Roche said to his son, as they walked slowly back to the 
house. “ What has gone wrong with you to-day, Henri ? ” 


WINGS AS A DOVEr 


153. 


It is enough to make a man look grave to hear the 
Bad tales M. Rey hath been telling upon the road,” 
answered the soldier evasively; but as he and Agnes 
walked home together in the twilight an hour later, 
he asked suddenly: 

“ Whom do you think I saw in Nismes to-day, 
Agnes? Nay, not our good doctor,” as the name near- 
est her heart rose instinctively to the girl’s lips, “ and 
yet some one very near to Rene, too. Mistress Eglan- 
tine, or Mademoiselle Bertrand, as they call her now. 
My cousin Renau sent me word he would reach the city 
by to-day, and when I went down to meet them, where 
should I find him and his friend, but at M. Laval’s. 
Mademoiselle and her aunt travelled down in their 
company, it seems, and Madame Cartel and my kins- 
man hath struck up a great friendship, and our merry 
young abbe hath discovered that he and mademoiselle 
are near of kin. I wonder I never suspected as much, 
when I knew his name was Bertrand.” 

The little hand in Henri’s trembled suddenly. 

“ I thought my cousin Eglantine had no relations on 
her father’s side,” said Rene Chevalier’s young sister. 

‘‘ So M. Laval was informed, but it seems there were 
two children of the elder son, who were placed in the 
cloister at their father’s death, of whom his informant 
had lost sight. Our good-humored abbe was the eld- 
est, and was brought up for the church, but his pretty 
sister Natalie was married last year to the count, to 
whom she was betrothed in childhood. Madame Car- 
tel knows her very well, it appears, and mademoiselle 
has also met her in La Rochelle, and is quite fond of 
her. But she is uneasy as to how your mother and 
brother will take the tidings, and I promised to break 
the news. You must help me, Agnes. You know bet- 
ter than I what words will pain them least.” 


154 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“ I am afraid Rene will be very much distressed. He 
will be afraid of the priest’s influence for my cousin.” 

“ Oh, as to that, do not let him give himself any 
anxiety. Louis will never make a bigot. He is an idle, 
good-humored fellow, who likes to be comfortable, and 
see people comfortable about him. And I fancy the 
handsome young countess is of the same stamp. 
Madame says she lives in a whirl of pleasure.” 

There was silence for several seconds before Agnes 
asked: 

“ Did you have much talk with Eglantine to-day ? ” 

“ I saw her for a few moments. The house was full 
of people. M. Laval is very proud of his grand' 
daughter, and Mademoiselle Bertrand seems very 
happy. She sent her dear love to you all, and said 
tell Madame Chevalier she would soon be up to make 
her a visit.” 

Captain La Roche was glad of the twilight that hid 
the hot flush upon his cheek. The world had not 
changed since Madame Cartel was young. Eglantine’s 
manner had been as gracious and sweet to-day as it 
had been briery and sharp on their last interview in 
La Rochelle, and his carefully-nursed resentment had 
gone down before the girlish pity in her eyes, as a bank 
of snow goes down before a warm sun. For a golden 
half-hour he had forgotten everything, and then had 
torn himself desperately away; he had been consumed 
with remorse and mad longing ever since. It troubled 
him, even in the darkness, to know that the innocent 
eyes of Rene’s little sister were fixed upon him. Agnes 
did not ask any more questions. They were now in 
the shadow of an overhanging cliff ; the mountain road 
had grown steep. Close at hand the child caught the 
rush of unseen waters, and felt the damp, sweet breath 
of the green things upon its banks. A vague sense of 


WINGS AS A DOVE." 


55 


trouble, near but intangible, stole upon her. She 
pressed closer to her friend, and the next moment she 
and Henri had both stumbled over some object in the 
road. The soldier uttered a sharp exclamation, and 
putting the child hastily aside, bent down. It was the 
body of a man, apparently lifeless. For a second he 
thought some foul murder had been committed, and 
the corpse left upon the highway, but a swift recollec- 
tion of the cliff above, suggested a different story. 

“ I fear some one has fallen over the cliff, Agnes. I 
cannot tell whether he lives or not. Would you be 
afraid to run home for Rene ? ” 

Before she could answer, Rene’s welcome voice 
hailed them, as he came scrambling down the side of 
the precipice. 

“I am here, monsieur.” The next moment he was 
bending over the mangled mass, his hand on the man’s 
heart. ‘‘ I saw him walk right over the edge of the 
rock,” he whispered. I was too far off to stop him. 
Yes, there is a throb of life in his breast. We must get 
help, and have him taken at once to the cottage. I do 
not recognize him, and there is no time to make in- 
quiries.” 

But Agnes, who had drawn near once more, inter- 
posed, sobbing: 

“ It is Ishmael, my poor grief-crazed Ishmael, Rene.” 
And as if in recognition of the name, the bleeding man 
moved and moaned. 

“ We must act promptly,” said the surgeon. “ Mon- 
sieur, if you will go on with Agnes to the cottage, and 
ask my mother to have a bed made ready, and bring 
men and a litter, I will watch by him until you come.” 

The unfortunate creature was groaning piteously 
when Captain La Roche returned ten minutes later 
with the needful assistance. He even tried to resist, 


156 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


as the four sturdy peasants, at Rene’s bidding, lifted 
him upon the improvised stretcher. But the doctor 
bade them not heed him, and in fifteen minutes more 
he was lying on a mattress in Madame Chevalier’s 
only guest-chamber. 

Rene shook his head after his professional exam- 
ination. 

“ He cannot live more than an hour. We ought to 
know if he has friends, and if he has made his prepara- 
tions for another world.” 

Monique Chevalier wiped the beads of suffering 
from the cold brow. 

“ My poor fellow, can you tell me your name ? Is it 
really Ishmael ? ” 

He stared at her stupidly. 

She repeated the question in a gentler tone. 

“ Is your name Ishmael ? Have you any other name ? 
Have you made your peace with God ? ” 

He made a hideous grimace of suffering, and turned 
away. 

Rene laid his hand upon his heart. 

“You are dying,” he said gravely. ‘ If you have 
anything to settle in this world, or any preparations to 
make for another, you have no time to lose.” 

A convulsive shudder shook the form upon the bed. 

“ Dying ! — and after that the judgment ! ” 

“Yes, your moments are numbered, and you stand 
face to face with the realities of eternity. My 
brother, if you have any burden upon your soul, let 
me point you to Him, who is able to save unto the 
uttermost.” 

“ Ha ! you do not know me then ? ” cried the sufferer 
with a wild, hysterical laugh. “ You call me brother; 
how the devils must laugh to hear the word.” 

“Are you not Ishmael, the man who hangs about 


WINGS AS A do ve: 


the ruins of the old temple, and whom my little sister 
was interested in ?” 

Once more the sufferer burst into a hideous insane 
laugh. 

“ I am Judas, the betrayer, the murderer ! " he hissed. 
“ Will you speak to me now of the mercy of your God, 
M. Chevalier ? 

Godfrey Chevalier’s widow and son started. Henri, 
standing at the foot of the bed, uttered a sharp inter- 
jection. A sudden suspicion of the truth had flashed 
upon them. Henri alone uttered the name between 
his set teeth. 

“Armand, the traitor! — the murderer of our good 
pastor.” 

The wretch regarded him contemptuously. 

“We meet at last, monsieur! They told me you 
hunted for me high and low, that my life would not 
be safe if you found me, but I took good care to keep 
out of your way. Ha ! I had forgotten Him who said : 
‘ I will recompense.’ I had forgotten the avenger in my 
breast from whom I could not flee. It lay down with 
me at night, and rose up with me in the morning ; it 
walked with me by the way, and sat down with me to 
meat. Before a year had passed, I would gladly 
have met your sword, monsieur. The woman I loved 
had turned from me with loathing ; my old mother 
had died cursing me with her la^t breath ; the good 
name my father left me was a reproach among our 
people. Worst of all : one face followed me every- 
where, his face, white, patient, suffering, as I had seen 
it last, the day they took him to the galley-ship. I 
tried to forget it at the gaming-table ; I tried to drown 
it in the wine-cup ; it would not down ; it dragged me 
back at last to haunt the place where he had lived : 
the temple I had destroyed, and where I had set the 


158 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


trap that had ensnared him. Would any torture you 
could have inflicted upon me, monsieur, been equal to 
this?” He had kept his eyes riveted upon Henri as 
he spoke; now he sank back white and writhing. . 

The rare tears were flowing down Madame Cheva- 
lier’s face. 

“ He forgave you freely, Armand,” she whispered. 
“ His last message to Henri was to bid him take no re- 
venge. He bade me tell you if I ever saw you, that he 
hoped God would pardon you, as he did.” 

The dying man motioned her fiercely away. 

“Do not speak to me ; do not let me see you ! ” he 
implored. “Next to his face, that follows me every- 
v/here, your eyes stab me to the heart.” 

His strength was well-nigh spent. Rene put a glass 
of cordial to his lips. 

“ Drink,” he said, in a quiet professional tone, to 
which the sufferer yielded instinctively. “Now,” 
when the draught had been swallow^ed, “did you 
mean to kill yourself when you walked over the cliff? 
I shouted to you, but you would not stop.” 

“ I did not know where I was going,” moaned the 
miserable man. “I always fancy as soon as it gets 
dark that he is following me, and when I heard some 
one call it frightened me still more, and I did not care 
where I went, so I did not have to face him. Not but 
what I would have died long ago,” he added, his voice 
rising to a shrill scream, “if I had thought I could put 
death between me and him, but I knew he would pur- 
sue me still, and meet me at the judgment-seat, and I 
dared not die.” 

It was evident that his reason had been seriously im- 
paired by remorse. If Rene had not long ago forgiven 
the sin, he felt he must have done so then, kneeling 
beside that writhing form. 


WINGS AS A dove: 


159 


“Armand,” he said gravely, ‘‘God has saved you 
from the sin of self-destruction. In His mercy He has 
given you a few moments to seek His mercy. Do 
not waste the precious seconds. Christ is mighty to 
save.” 

Armand shook his head. “ He cannot save me,” he 
whispered. “ There is no forgiveness for a sin like 
mine.” 

There was a stir at the door, and before Rene could 
bid her back, Agnes was kneeling beside him. The 
face of the dying man changed strangely. His glance 
softened; his lip trembled. “She is like him, yet not 
him,” he whispered. “There is no reproach in her 
eyes. Her voice does not upbraid me. Yesterday she 
spoke to me of forgiveness. What was it you said — 
white as snow? A sin as black as mine?” 

T rem ulously Agnes repeated : “ Though your sins be 
as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow ; though they 
be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.” 

The dying man watched her as if fascinated. The 
others held their breath. 

“It is his voice,” murmured Armand. “He said 
those very words to me once, and he looked just as you 
look now. But you do not know,” his voice rising to 
a scream once more. “ It was I who betrayed the good 
pastor, I who sent him to his death. Now you will not 
speak any more to me of pardon.” 

The tears rushed to the girl’s eyes. She understood 
at last. 

“Armand,” she said in a trembling voice, “my 
father has been happy in heaven for many years. Put 
away that thought that he is following you. I am sure 
nothing hurt him so much that you did not really re- 
pent of your sin. I am sure it would make him happy 
even in heaven, if you would be sorry, and let God 


i6o ^OlV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 

cleanse you. The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from 
all sin.” 

The death-chilled fingers closed upon hers. 

“ Do you believe it, do you believe it ? ” whispered 
Armand eagerly. “ I will believe anything you tell me. 
You have been kind to me. Yours is the first face that 
has smiled upon me. All sin, did you say ? Would the 
Lord Jesus really take in such a sinner as me ? ” 

“ Let us ask Him,” said Monique Chevalier’s sweet 
voice beside them. 

And the three knelt around the low bed, while Rena 
committed the passing soul to Him who is “ plenteous 
in mercy. 

When the prayer was ended Armand’s cold r>and3 
still clutched Agnes’ dress, but the semblance of a 
smile lay on the frozen lips, and Madame Chcvaliei 
drew her child, weeping but rejoicing, from the room. 

Before sunrise the next morning Armand had been 
laid in his grave near the ruins of the old temple, and 
that evening, as they sat talking in the twilight of him 
and that other whom his going had brought so near, 
there came a tap upon the outer door. Rene answered 
it. A slight figure, wrapped in a large travelling-hood 
and cloak, stcod before him. 

“ Will you take me again ? ” asked Eglantine’s sweet, 
tremulous voice. 

And before the young man could answer, she had 
darted past him, and was laughing and crying in his 
mother’s arms. 

“ I thought we would never find you. I never re^ 
membered until after we started that I did not know 
just where you were living now, and we were afraid 
to ask any one, Nannette and I. Oh, yes, I have 
brought Nannette with me, poor old nurse. There she 
comes, all out of breath, with Antoine helping her. 


WINGS AS A DOVEr 


l6l 


If we had not met Antoine just as we got out of the 
diligence, I do not know when we would have got 
here.’ 

All this without taking breath, while Madame 
Chevalier loosened the cloak and hood with trembling 
hands, and pressed her speechless lips to the girlish 
brow. But no smile of welcome illuminated Rene’s 
strong, sunburnt face. 

“ What has happened. Eglantine ? ” he asked. 
“ Where is M. Laval ? Does he know where you are ? ” 

She lifted her bright, moist eyes from his mother’s 
shoulder. 

“ I did not tell him, Rene, but I daresay he will 
guess. But I do not mean to go back with him, if he 
comes after me. You and aunt Monique will not blame 
me when you hear.” 

“ When we hear what ? ” 

“ That he has been to mass and signed the paper the 
priests brought him, and tried to make me sign it, too. 
You need not look frightened, Rene. I did not forget 
what I had promised you, though my grandfather said 
there was no harm in it, and he was very angry when 
he found I would not believe him, and he said it was 
all your doing, and that if I did not take care I would 
find myself in a convent some day. That frightened 
me. It is the first time my grandfather has ever been 
angry with me. I talked to Nannette last night, and 
told her we would come up here to you and aunt Mon- 
ique, as you had said, where we would be safe. So when 
we came out for our walk this morning, we did not 
go back. You will not send me away, will you, Rene ? ” 

“ Send you away ! ” Hov/ gladly would he have hid- 
den her in his heart of hearts, and fought the hard fight 
for two. But he only pressed her hand gently, and 
turned to give Nannette a chair. 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


162 

“It is all too true, Master Rene,” gasped the old 
nurse, as she sank breathless into the seat. “The 
master has gone over to the Catholics, and tried to 
make my young lady do the same. Thank God she 
had the strength to say him nay. But I am sure he 
never meant his threat of the convent. She is the very 
light of his eyes, and he would never have pressed her 
much if it had not been for that wily kinsman of 
Captain La Roche’s, who is staying at our house. He 
has been talking to the master ever since he has been 
there, and he has a cunning tongue, which could 
a’most make you believe black is white.” 

“ I hate him,” exclaimed Eglantine passionately. 
“ He is false and cruel. I saw it the first day 1 met him. 
I wonder my grandfather could be deceived by him.” 

“ Hush i He is your grandfather, and he loves you 
very tenderly. We must never forget that,” said 
Madame Chevalier, and then she drew her foster- 
daughter close to her heart. “ Thank God you were 
enabled to resist the temptation, and are here with us,” 
she whispered. 

“ Then you will let me stay ? My grandfather is sure 
to suspect where I am, and come after me. You will 
not let him take me away, aunt Monique?” 

“ Not if I can help it, Mignonne. We will do every- 
thing to shield you — everything that is right.” 

But long after Eglantine had fallen asleep that 
night, with Agnes’ soft arms about her neck, Monique 
Chevalier and her son sat in anxious consultation. 
Their dove had come back to the ark, but how long 
would she be permitted to fold her wings beneath 
their roof? M. Laval’s recantation was a blow they 
had long had reason to dread. 

“We have no right to keep him in ignorance of her 
whereabouts,” the mother said at last I will write to 


WINGS AS A dove:- 163 

him to night, and you will take the letter to Nismes 
to-morrow.” 

And Rene answered, gazing into the sweet, stead- 
fast eyes : “You will never give her up to be placed 
in a convent, my mother?” 

“ Never ! If it comes to that, Rene, I will shield her 
as I would Agnes herself. God and her mother gave 
her to me.” 

It is a necessity of some natures that a great sorrow 
can never leave them quite the same, that they must 
be either richer or poorer for it all their lives long. 
Weaker souls may succumb, lighter hearts be cleft 
asunder for a moment like the facile waters of a lake, 
only to meet and smile presently, with no scar to tell 
where the bolt fell. But to those whose foundations 
lie strong and deep, a great surrender involves a 
wrench and convulsion of the whole nature, and the 
traces of it will remain as ineffaceable as the traces of 
God’s ploughshare among the hills — where, centuries 
after the cataclysm has passed, gorge and fissure and 
ravine bear witness to the fury of the storm and the 
path the lightning took. The soft shadows under the 
widow’s eyes, the early winter that had come to her 
hair, were not the only changes wrought by that part- 
ing in the dungeon of St. Esprit, and the lonely years 
that had followed. The gentle, white-haired woman 
who moved to and fro among the mountain people, a 
very angel of mercy, who had wiped the dews of suf- 
fering from Armand’s brow two nights before, and 
folded the motherless girl that night to her heart, had 
less to hope for, less to lose, than the wife who had 
listened in the ivy-covered porch for her husband’s 
home-coming step, but she had also unspeakably more 
to give. For it is true of God’s spiritual as well as of 
His physical kingdom, that in these great storm-up- 


164 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


heavals there are developed possibilities of fruitfulness 
and capacities of beauty and strength undreamed of 
before. The waters gush purest, and the mosses grow 
greenest, where the rocks have been cleft asunder, and 
from broken hearts and smitten lives, balm and bounty 
flow out upon the world. The grace and loveliness 
that mantle many a life are but a garment of bloom 
over some rough scar. 


CHAPTER XI. 


CROSS OR SWORD ? 



HE day after his walk home with Agnes in the 


1 twilight had come to such a tragic conclusion, 
Captain La Roche and his father had been summoned 
to Montauban on business relating to the approaching 
convention at Toulouse, and it was not until the end 
of the next week that they found themselves once 
more at the chateau. Henri walked down the same 
evening to inquire after his friends, and to talk over 
with Rene the event now of paramount interest in all 
Huguenot households. As the young sieur had inti- 
mated to his kinsman at La Rochelle, there was a 
deep and w'ide-spread conviction among the Protest- 
ants of the provinces that their king was kept in 
ignorance of the afflictions under which they labored. 
Paris and its subuibs were notoriously exempt from 
the rigid enforcement of the edicts, and it was an 
equally well-known fact that no tale of suffering or 
cruelty was permitted to reach the royal ear. It was 
believed that the courtiers of Louis XIV., while they 
sought to ingratiate themselves by presenting long 
lists of converts, took care not to arouse his native 
kindness of heart by betraying the severities by which 
they were procured. When, as in the case of the 
Vivarais, the religionnaires had been stung into actual 
resistance by the accumulation of their sufferings, the 
outbreak had been represented as a political rising, 
and wily tongues had not been wanting to bring it 


(165) 


66 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


forward as an evidence of a deep-seated dislike to the 
king’s person and authority. To prepare a petition 
which should refute these slanders, unveil the true 
story of their grievances, and make a firm though re- 
spectful demand for the rights guaranteed to them in 
the Edict of Nantes, was the purpose of the coming 
convention, composed of the noblest and wisest of the 
Protestant leaders throughout France. 

‘‘ My father is very sanguine as to the result,” Cap- 
tain La Roche said, as he sat by Madame Chevalier’s 
spinning-wheel, and watched her white hands move 
to and fro at their work, — “ more sanguine than I have 
ever seen him as to any improvement in our condition. 
He maintains that his majesty is too sagacious a ruler 
to treat with impunity the protest of so many of his 
best subjects. I only hope he is right ; but if what I 
heard in La Rochelle be true, the lifting of Madame 
Scarron’s little finger will outweigh every voice in 
France. And Madame Scarron hates the religion 
even more than she hates Minister Louvois.” 

“ And yet it was the faith of the wilderness church 
she learned at her mother’s knee, and for which she 
made such a noble stand, it is said, when she was 
placed in the convent, a child of fourteen.” The pas- 
tor’s widow spoke with a tear in her eye. “ Alas ! 
Frances d’Aubigne ! So noble in impulse, so weak 
in endurance ! It only shows what the best of us 
would be without God’s grace. But I find it hard to 
believe she can stoop to persecute the religion she 
once held sacred.” 

“Yet there seems no question about it, madame. 
We met gentlemen at Montauban fresh from Paris, 
and their tidings were such as to make us feel that 
now or never must we make a stand for our rights. 
Next to her marriage with the king, which some say 


CJ^OSS OR SWORD? 


167 


hath already taken place, there is no object so dear 
to the lady’s heart as the revocation of the Edict of 
Nantes. Ay, madame, her desire stops not short of 
the total extinction of our liberties, and the father of 
Minister Louvois helps on her plea with every argu- 
ment in his reach. They have persuaded his majesty 
that the act will atone for the sins of his youth, and 
cover him with glory in the sight of God and man. 
It is Frances Scarron, not Louis XIV., who wdll de- 
cide the destinies of France. Our grand monarch is 
but a child in her hands.” 

“ Nay, his heart lies in the hands of the King of 
kings, who can turn it whithersoever He will, and to 
whom, first of all, we have committed our cause. I 
would fain hope with your father, Henri, that our 
king’s clemency and justice will now assert themselves, 
and that the petition will prove the way of escape our 
God has opened for us.” 

“ May He so order it, madame. I shall fear the 
disappointment for my father, as well as regret it 
for France, if it prove otherwise. Mon ami,” the 
young soldier glanced up keenly at the tall fig- 
ure leaning silently against the window-frame : “ I 
do not think I have ever heard your voice upon the 
matter.” 

Rene did not answer. His heart had answered to a 
light step upon the stair, and as he glanced toward the 
door. Eglantine opened it. The knot of sweetbrier he 
had brought that evening fastened the snowy kerchief 
at her throat, and a color lovelier than that of the wild 
rose v/as upon her cheek. 

Do I intrude upon some grave discussion ? ” she 
asked, stopping short at sight of the three grave faces, 
and looking from one to the other with laughing un- 
certainty in her eyes. 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


1 68 

Henri had started, almost with an expression of dis- 
may, to his feet. 

“You here, mademoiselle? I had no idea — I was 
not informed of your arrival.” 

“ Eglantine took us by surprise the other evening,” 
Madame Chevalier explained gently. 

“ Did I not tell you I would be up very soon to see 
my aunt Monique?” Eglantine held out her hand 
with a smile. 

“ Indeed you did, mademoiselle, but I ventured to 
believe M. Laval would not consent to part with his 
recovered treasure so soon. I forgot how difficult he 
would find it to refuse any plea preferred by such elo- 
quent eyes and lips.” 

She made him a gay courtesy. 

“ Thank you, M. le Capitaine ; that is positively the 
first compliment I have received since 1 have been in 
the Cevennes. Rene does not think praise good for 
me, or me good enough for it — I am not sure which it 
is,” with a mischievous glance at the tall figure still 
leaning silently against the lattice. “ Perhaps I will 
shock you, too, when I own I did not wait to prefer my 
suit, but took the law into my own hands, and ran 
away. What ! you can smile at such naughtiness ? ” 

Once more Madame Chevalier interposed. She alone 
had noticed that Rene had not spoken since Eglan- 
tine’s entrance. 

“ There was more excuse for the step than she gives 
you to suppose, Henri. But it is a painful topic, and 
I will not open it now. M. Laval has consented to let 
his granddaughter remain with us for a few weeks, and 
we are very happy to have our sweetbrier back again,” 
drawing the girl tenderly to her as she spoke. “ I see 
you have discarded your sling, Henri.” 

“ Ay, madame, and right glad I am to be quit of it 


CJ^OSS OR SWORD? 


169 

I begin to dream of camps and battles already, but my 
father will not hear of them, and, I doubt not, has 
bribed our good doctor here to say I will not be fit for 
service for some time to come. Ah, little one,” as 
Agnes stole up with a smile, and laid her hand upon 
his sleeve. “Thou art the one of all others I wished 
to see. I have two messages for you : one from Jean, 
who has a pair of white pigeons he wishes to transfer 
to your tender care, and will bring down before break- 
fast; the other is from monsieur, who has brought back 
some new pamphlets from Montauban, and hopes his 
little reader will not fail him to-morrow. My father 
and Agnes are great friends, mademoiselle, and talk 
over the affairs of Beaumont and the State like a pair 
of grave old counsellors. 1 am almost tempted to be 
jealous of the child, sometimes.” 

“ I do not wonder that any one loves Agnes,” an- 
swered Eglantine in a low voice, but a shadow had 
fallen upon her heart, she could not tell from whence, 
and she crossed the room, and sat down at her em- 
broidery - frame. If she had expected Captain La 
Roche to follow her, she was mistaken. He seated 
himself once more by Madame Chevalier’s spinning- 
wheel, and turning to Rene, repeated the question 
which had been interrupted by her entrance. 

“What is your opinion of the petition, mon ami?” 

The young surgeon looked up from the sunny head ; 
his little sister leaned against his shoulder. 

“ I am in favor of it, heart and soul, my young sieur ! 
However slim its chances of success, there is this much 
to be said in its favor, it is our last resource.” 

“ Not the last resource,” corrected Captain La Roche 
significantly. 

Eglantine looked up from her embroidery, 

“ Will you hold my skein of silk for me, Rene ? 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


170 

she asked, and as her foster-brother came quietly to 
her in answer to the summons: “Do you, then, see 
other light upon the matter, monsieur ? ” 

“I see the light of unsheathed swords and kindled 
camp-fires, mademoiselle. If our king shall so far 
forget what is due to himself and to us, as to refuse 
the rights ratified to us by his own royal oath at his 
coronation, why should we not appeal to arms, as our 
fathers have done, again and again ? ” 

“ Why not, indeed ? ” she echoed, and the soft fingers 
adjusting the golden floss on Rene’s outstretched 
hands, paused for a moment, as Eglantine glanced 
across the room. “That is just what I have been 
saying to Rene to-day, M. Henri. But he thinks I am 
a girl, and cannot understand. I wish you would try 
and make him see things as you do.” 

“ M. Henri and I have already fully discussed the 
subject,” interposed Rene Chevalier in a pained voice. 
“ He is acquainted with my views, and I know all the 
arguments he would bring. My young sieur, I entreat 
you not to renew the discussion. Such words as you 
uttered just now are seeds of fire, which will yield a 
lurid harvest.” 

“Would to God, then, they were so thick sown 
through France as to set every Huguenot heart 
aflame ! ” was the passionate retort. “ Sometimes, 
Rene, you tempt me to believe you have a stone, in- 
stead of a man’s heart, in your breast. You know as 
well as I, that if the petition fails, the Protestants of 
France will have no choice but between extermination 
and resistance. Would you have us wait patiently to 
be butchered like sheep ? ” 

“ An God so will, we could not die a nobler death. 
As it is written, ‘ For Thy sake we are killed all the 
day long, we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter,’ 


CBOSS OR SWORD? 


171 


I Xti\G a man’s heart in my breast, my young sieur, 
th ough you sometimes doubt it, and there is one truth 
burnt ii'ito it with the ineffaceable cautery of a great 
sorrow, and a great revelation : ‘The disciple is not 
above his master, nor the servant above his lord.’ 
Can any man crave greater honor than to tread in the 
footsteps of Him who was ‘ led as a lamb to the 
slaughter ’ ? ’* 

Henri flushed with resentment, but conscious that 
he had incurred ihe rebuke, ruled his temper. 

“You have tripped me with my own net, Rene. 1 
suppose I can scarce take exception to the sermon, 
since I furnished you with a text. But you appear to 
forget there are others for whom we choose the cross 
when we embrace it for ourselves. A man may indeed 
choose martyrdom bravely for himself, but he will 
pause and consider, methinks, before he allots it to 
those dearer to him than life.” His glance instinct- 
ively sought Eglantine’s drooping head, and then met 
his friend’s eyes with a sparkle of defiance. 

Rene had finished holding the skein, but was still 
sitting beside Eglantine, with his arm around his little 
sister. He answered the angry look with one of sor- 
rowful comprehension. 

“There are some things, monsieur, which a man 
cannot offer, but which he dare not withhold when 
God asks — God, who ‘ spared not His own Son.’ ” 

Captain La Roche sprang to his feet in uncontrolla- 
ble impatience; 

“We have had enough theology, Rene. I have not 
the grace to desire your resignation, far less the 
strength to imitate it. The women and children of 
the Desert Church shall not be surrendered without 
resistance, to the convents and cowls of Rome. If the 
appeal to the king’s clemency fails, the appeal to the 


72 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


manhood of France will elicit an answer that shall 
make the tyrant tremble upon his throne.” 

“ Henri,” said Monique Chevalier in gentle rebuke, 
while Rene glanced toward the open window with a 
fear which made Eglantine’s lip curl. 

“ My young sieur,” he said, going up to Henri, and 
laying his hand upon his sleeve, “ I ask your pardon, 
if I have said aught your father’s vassal should not 
have said to your father’s son ; but for his sake, for 
your own sake, I entreat you to be more guarded in 
your speech. Remember what I said to you at La 
Rochelle. We have long ceased to exist as a party in 
the State. We are scattered, separated, and divided 
among ourselves. To unite these broken links under 
the close surveillance to which we are subjected, is im- 
possible. To attempt resistance without it, is suicidal. 
It will draw down upon the innocent heads the woes 
you most dread.” 

Before Henri could answer. Eglantine was confront- 
ing them, with eyes and cheeks aflame. 

‘‘ That is a man’s voice, M. La Roche ; now hear a 
woman’s. If the women have to suffer, they have a 
right to be heard, and I, for one, say it will be easier 
to die — if die we must — after hard blows have been 
struck and brave deeds done. No, Rene, I will not 
hush. You may preach down your own heart, but you 
shall not preach down mine. Remember those moth- 
ers in Pons you told me of last night, who had their 
infants frozen to death upon their breasts last winter 
while they waited in the snow and ice outside the 
closed temple doors — closed by the orders of the 
Church of Rome, you say — and which the fathers 
standing by had not the manhood to burst open, I add. 
It is hard to be made a martyr, whether one will or 
not.” 


CROSS OR S IVOR DP 


173 

Eglantine, my child,” exclaimed Madame Chevalier 
in sorrowful amazement, while even Henri colored at the 
scarcely-veiled blow at his friend. Rene said nothing. 

“Oh, I know Fm wicked,” the girl hurried on reck- 
lessly ; “ that I am not good and patient as I should 
be. I ought to sit still and hold my peace, and take 
meekly whatever comes ; but I cannot, and I will not. 
It is not true that I want everything easy and bright 
about me, that I cannot bear hardships for the religion 
like others. I can eat my crust with the best if I 
have a little hope to salt it with, and you shall all see 
that I can make sacrifices and face danger when the 
call comes. I am not afraid to die, but it must be out 
under the open sky, with the tempest beating round 
me, not sitting still in some underground cave, with 
the cruel black waters creeping on me inch by inch. 
You would let my grandfather take me away to- 
morrow if he came for me, — you know you would, 
Rene, — and never lift a finger, though I dared so much 
to come to you.” 

Her voice began to tremble, and Rene, who had 
been watching her carefully, seized the moment to 
lead her back to her seat. 

“You wrong yourself and me by such words” he 
said gravely, “ and you have gone far beyond the sub- 
ject, Eglantine. No one doubts your courage or abil- 
ity to endure hardship. My young sieur, shall we 
not drop this painful subject? Until the appeal to 
the king’s justice fails, we are surely of one mind. 
May we not rest our discussion until then ?” 

“ By all means,” was the hearty response, for Henri 
was thoroughly dismayed by the storm he had raised. 
“ Mademoiselle, I entreat you do not make me miser- 
able with the thought that I am in any way respon- 
sible for these tears.” 


174 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


‘‘What was that little air you sang for my mother 
last night, and which she said she would like monsieur 
to hear?” asked Rene. “Dry your eyes, Eglantine, 
and let M. Henri hear it while he is here. I do not 
think he has ever heard you sing.” 

“ Only once, in church, and I have wished ever since 
to hear more,” stammered Captain La Roche. 

Eglantine rose and brought her lute, with the 
faintest dimple of a smile about her mouth. The air 
she sang was not the plaintive woodland carol, for 
which Rene had asked, but a stirring martial ballad. 
Henri was lavish in his praise, and easily persuaded 
her to add song to song. The stormy scene of the 
first part of the evening seemed far away, when he 
rose, late, to take his leave. 

“ I have grown very grave and useful since I have 
been in the Cevennes,” Eglantine was telling him 
gaily. “You would scarcely know me, M. Henri, for 
the silly butterfly you saw the other day in Nismes. 
Nannette is teaching me how to spin, and Antoine 
lets me help him in the garden, and my aunt takes 
me with her to see the sick people, and I go with 
Agnes to gather simples, and sometimes we go into 
the vineyards and help gather the grapes. The peo- 
ple are all so good to me, monsieur : so many re- 
member the naughty child who was here in the good 
pastor’s days, and those who have grown up since, have 
a welcome for me too. Do you think your father would 
let me come up and see him too ? I will promise not to 
tease poor dame Martineau as I used to do, and I would 
like to read to monsieur sometimes, as Agnes does.” 

“ He will be very happy to see you, mademoiselle, 
and he will like best of all to hear you sing. I will 
find out to-morrow whether my moth*e.r’s harpsichord 
can be retuned.” 


CROSS OR SWORD f 


175 


“ Then I will come up with Agnes some day,” she 
said, holding out her hand frankly ; but as their eyes 
met, both remembered the. words that had been spoken 
in the earlier part of the interview. 

“ I have found my hero, monsieur.” Mademoiselle 
Bertrand spoke in a low, cautious tone. 

“And I my inspiration, mademoiselle.” 

Rene, standing in the doorway, saw the light on the 
two faces, though he did not catch the words. He fol- 
lowed his young sieur out. 

“ I have a sleeping-draught to leave at a cottage on 
the other side of the chateau. If you have no objec- 
tion, monsieur, I will walk with you.” And though 
Henri’s assent was tardy in coming, his friend did not 
withdraw the proffer. 

It was past midnight when Eglantine, waking from a 
troubled sleep, heard the cottage gate close, and Rene 
enter the house. 

“ He has been sitting up with that sick boy,” she 
thought fretfully ; “ he is always doing something to 
make himself uncomfortable”; and then fell asleep 
again, to dream that she was once more in the old 
church of La Rochelle, with a strong arm around her, 
and a grave voice assuring her, through the roar of 
the mob, “ There shall not a hair of your head be 
hurt.” She woke to find the sunshine streaming in 
through the window, and Agnes pulling at her hand, 
trying to rouse her. The roar had changed into the 
hum of her aunt’s spinning-wheel down-stairs. She 
half expected a reproach for her behavior of the pre- 
vious evening, when she crept down at last late to 
breakfast, and found Madame Chevalier alone in the 
room. But though the widow’s manner was grave, it 
was kinder than usual, and there was no reproach in 
her eyes, as she refused the girl’s offer to accompany 


176 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


her on a visit to the hamlet, and bade her take her 
embroidery out into the garden, and sit there instead. 
Agnes had gone up to the chateau, and Eglantine felt 
a little lonely, as she sat on the rustic bench in the old 
arbor, and watched the golden marguerites blossom 
on the crimson velvet under her hand. Rene had 
gone out immediately after breakfast, her aunt had 
said. He was always out, it seemed. She began to 
nurse a vague feeling of injury until she saw him 
coming toward her down the garden-path, and then a 
sudden inclination to fly seized her. She did not feel 
prepared for a tete-a-tete with Rene, but his quick, un- 
hesitating tread left her no alternative. She would 
not look up when he stopped in the entrance of the 
arbor, and his shadow fell across her work. Rene 
watched the bent, flushed face for a moment, and then 
laid his hand upon the swift fingers, and made her 
look up. 

“You will never love me well enough to be my wife. 
Eglantine.” He spoke quietly, as if in statement of a 
well-accepted fact. 

The blood rushed to the girl’s throat and brow. 

“ Rene ! ” she cried, with a sharp note of pain in her 
voice, and then her eyes fell, and her lips were mute. 

He sat down by her, and took her hand. 

“ Have I been too abrupt? Pardon me. Eglantine. I 
have said the words over so often to myself. Do you 
remember what you said to me when we parted in La 
Rochelle? You could not love me better if I were 
your own brother. I have thought of it often since. 
I want you to let me talk to you to-day, as I would 
talk to Agnes. I have never told you the condition 
on which alone your grandfather would consent to let 
you make us this visit. It was, that neither my mother 
nor I should try to induce you, while you were under 


CI^OSS OR SWORD? 


77 


our roof, to fulfil our childish compact. He knew I 
could not refuse, however hard the price, but he need 
not have been afraid I would interfere with his plans. 
I had seen already I could never be more to you than 
a brother, — do not tremble so. Eglantine ! — and I had 
not needed the Abbe Bertrand’s hint to tell me that 
another, better suited to you in name and station, 
loved you too. Nay, do not turn away from me, my 
sister. I heard the truth in my young sieur’s voice 
the first time he ever uttered your name ! He is brave 
and honorable, but he could not hide the secret from 
eyes as keen as mine. Ay, I know all you would say : 
‘ He has been true to me in thought and deed.’ At first, 
he did not know who you were, and when he did, his 
manner changed, and he went away. But he could 
not fight against God. Why did I not speak sooner, 
then ? I could not give you up of my own accord. 
Eglantine — not at first. I said to myself : Ht is a pass- 
ing fancy with him, he will soon see some other face 
that pleases him ; she is my one ewe-lamb — I have 
loved and hoped for her all my life. She is young ; I 
will wait and be patient ; perhaps her heart will turn 
to me in time. At least, if he wins her from me, it 
shall be by his own overcoming strength.’ But when 
I saw you together last night, when I saw how his 
color rose under your eyes as the tides rise under the 
moon, and your face turn to him as the heliotrope 
turns to the sun — I said to myself, ‘It is His will ; He 
has given me the desires of my heart, though not as I 
asked for them.’ And so I walked home with my 
young sieur, and he could not deny the truth, when I 
pressed him.” 

“ You have spoken to him, Rene ? ” Eglantine’s face 
was like a rose, as she lifted it for a moment. 

“ Why not, my sister ? Do not brothers settle such 


78 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


matters when there is no father there ? And Henri’s 
lips were sealed because I was his friend, and he felt 
you belonged to me; but when I told him I had given 
up hoping for your love, and would be thankful to 
know you were in the keeping of hands so strong and 
true as his, and showed him the letter I had from your 
grandfather yesterday, — I would not worry you 
with it, Eglantine, — saying you must be brought 
home this week, he could no longer hesitate. His 
honor and his happiness were one. He would have 
flown back to you at once but for the lateness of the 
hour.” 

Rene ceased abruptly. He was remembering how, 
under the summer stars, he had seen that sudden 
dawn of joy kindle in his young sieur’s face — how 
Henri had thrown his arms about his neck in speech- 
less gratitude, and then, with hand lifted to heaven, 
had sworn his friend should never repent this hour. 
“I will keep her as the apple of my eye — as my own 
soul. She shall never know anything but tender looks 
and words; my love shall be her covert from trouble, 
her hiding-place from the storm,” he had said solemnly. 
But Rene could not repeat this to Eglantine. She was 
weeping quietly, with her face turned from him. In 
the rapture of this sudden joy there was yet space for 
remorse. 

“And you could do all this for me, when I had been 
so willful and ungrateful?” she murmured. “Oh, 
Rene ! you know it was to tease you I talked as I did. 
I even said you would let my grandfather take me 
away, without lifting a finger. How wicked I was ! 
How good you are ! ” 

She did not add, “ How you love me ! ” She had yet 
to comprehend an affection which could find it sweeter 
to serve than to receive, and v/ould m.easure its gifts 


CI^OSS OR SWORD? 


179 


by needs, not deserts. In her secret heart she knew 
Henri would never have let her go, if he had had so 
good a claim upon her. “ He would have made me 
love him in spite of myself,” she thought. Yet Rene 
had never seemed so dear. 

I will try to be a better girl — be more serious and 
womanly, and to care more for the things that you 
like,” she said, holding out her hands to him. Instinct 
told her it was the one return she could make. 

His sad face lighted up instantly. 

“ Thank you for that promise, Eglantine. It is my 
earnest hope and prayer that God will lead you both 
nearer to Himself by this joy, as He does some of the 
rest of us through our sorrow. But I have not quite 
finished my story. I went in with Henri last night to 
see monsieur. He would never have been reconciled 
to the matter, if he thought I felt wronged in any way, 
and I wanted myself to tell him how noble and honor- 
able his son had been throughout. He looked hap- 
pier before I left him at the prospect of having a bright, 
young face once more about the house, and when I 
said you were young to take such grave responsibili- 
ties, and that if it were not for the peril that threat- 
ened you, I would urge a year or two of delay, he 
smiled and said you were no younger than Henri’s 
mother, when he brought her a bride to the chateau. 
You will have it in your power to shed much bright- 
ness about his last days. Eglantine. He and Henri 
have gone to Nismes this morning to see your grand- 
father. Monsieur has old-fashioned ideas of etiquette, 
and he insisted on this before Henri spoke to you. 
But there is no doubt of the result. I have reason to 
believe that M. Laval is expecting them, and that he 
will be too much gratified at the alliance to stumble 
at the conditions monsieur will impose for a speedy 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


l8o 

marriage, and permission for his son’s betrothea to 
remain, as long as he wishes, under my mother’s roof. 
I thought you would like to be with my mother for a 
while. Eglantine. She is your mother too, you know, 
though, of course, we must not be selfish, and keep 
you altogether from M. Laval, when he is soon to part 
with you forever. He will make no attempt now to 
make you change your religion, and you will not re- 
fuse to ratify the consent he will give to M. La Roche. 
Will you, my sister?” 

Eglantine looked out of the window, and smiled. 
There was something she could say to Henri, and to 
no one else. Rene rose from the rustic bench. 

There is my mother coming up the hill. Let us go 
up to the house to meet her. You must be very gentle 
with her,” he added, as they passed together through 
the rows of sweet clove-pinks that bordered the gar- 
den-beds. “ This has been a great disappointment 
to her. Eglantine. She has always looked forward 
to having you for her very own.” He did not add 
that the sharpest pang for his mother had been the 
consciousness of his disappointment, but Eglantine 
guessed it. 

“Do you mind very much, Rene?” she asked, stop- 
ping in the shadow of the sweetbrier over the porch, 
to look earnestly into his face. “You are so much in- 
terested in your work, you will not miss me very much, 
will you ? And you are so much graver and better 
than I, you deserve a better wife.” 

For the first time his lip trembled, and he looked 
straight before him into the misty amethyst of the 
summer horizon. 

“ It is my Master’s will — that satisfies me,” he said 
in a low voice. “ Do not worry about me, Eglantine. 
He will not leave me comfortless. His favor is life. 


CWSS OR SWORD? 


i8l 

Perhaps in the path He has marked out for me He 
sees I can serve Him best alone.” 

And then as she still lingered, irresolute beside him, 
he put her away gently but firmly, and passed on into 
the house. 

Through all the golden, enchanted days that fol- 
lowed, Eglantine could never quite forget the look 
upon his face. 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE SECOND HOME-COMING. 

I T was March of the next year. The wild winds of 
a stormy night swept the slopes of the Cevennes, 
as a coach slowly made its way up the mountain road 
in the direction of the towers of Beaumont. The 
snow, which had been falling all day, had ceased, and 
lay in white, frozen masses along the road, obliterating 
every landmark. The few stars that endeavored to 
shine, were only occasionally visible through the 
murky clouds drifting across the sky. More than 
once the driver had paused, and descending, examined 
with a lantern the way before him; but in spite of his 
care the frequent jolting of the vehicle over unseen 
obstacles elicited indignant remonstrances from some 
one within. Finally, there was a sharp call to halt, a 
window was thrown up, and Captain La Roche’s voice 
demanded impatiently : 

“ Is it not possible for you to be more careful, 
Martin? You will kill madame with your rough 
driving. If it were not for leaving her, I would come 
out and take the reins myself.” 

“ With all respect, M. le Capitaine, I fear you would 
not do much better,” answered the man sullenly. “ It 
is the sense in our horses’ heels, not the hands upon 
the reins, that will keep us off the precipice to-night.” 

“ Nonsense! If we have the road to Beaumont, and 
keep the middle of it, there is no danger”; but as 
(182) 


THE SECOND HOME-COMING. 


183 


Captain La Roche spoke, he opened the door of the 
coach, and springing out, came up to the box. “ Keep 
a stiller tongue in your head, if you would not frighten 
my lady out of her wits,” he said in a low, stern voice ; 
then to the valet seated beside Martin : “Jean, you 
ought to know the country by night as well as day. 
Cannot you help Martin to keep the road ? ” 

Jean scrambled down, and came round to his master’s 
side. 

“ I begin to fear we are not on the road to Beau- 
mont at all, monsieur. We ought to have passed the 
ruins of the old temple before this, but not a familiar 
landmark have I set eyes on to-night.” 

“ You must have had bat’s eyes to recognize your 
own mother in such darkness as this,” retorted the 
young sieur hastily. “ I am sure we took the right 
turn at the crossroads, and Martin could not have 
wandered much from the track since then, without my 
perceiving it. Come, my good fellow, take the lan- 
tern, and go before him a little, that he may have 
light upon his path, and let the thought of your good 
Lucille, watching for you at Beaumont, be a lode-star 
to your feet. Eglantine,” he added, re-entering the 
coach, and bending anxiously over the slight figure, 
wrapped in furs and shawls in the corner, ‘‘ I fear this 
hurried journey will make you ill. I wish I had lis- 
tened to my better judgment, not your siren voice, 
and insisted upon your stopping overnight at Anduze.” 

“ No, no,” answered a faint but cheerful voice. 
‘‘ This is a hundred times better, Henri. I could never 
have been happy left behind, and I have such a strange 
presentiment that you are wanted at Beaumont, that 
I would not have dared to ask you to stay with me.” 

“ Our hurried flight from Paris, and your fear lest 
a lettre de cachet is at my heels, has not a little to do 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


with that presentiment, I fancy. My little wife for* 
gets that I am of less consequence in Minister 
Louvois’ eyes than in hers.” Henri La Roche put his 
arm tenderly about the figure beside him, and his 
young wife leaned her head upon his shoulder, and 
laughed. They had been married in the golden Sep- 
tember weather, and now the march snows were upon 
the ground, but it was still summer in their love. 

“ I begin to wish we had never accepted Natalie’s 
invitation, and gone up to Paris,” murmured Eglan- 
tine, as they moved on slowly once more. “ It has 
all been very wonderful and beautiful, Henri ; but I 
would have been just as happy at Beaumont with you, 
and I am afraid monsieur has missed us very much.” 

I am afraid he has, my beautiful ; but you were so 
eager to see la belle Paris.” 

“And you could not bear to say me no, Henri. I 
am afraid I have been selfish, yet not wholly so : M. 
Renau was so sure it would help to secure your pro- 
motion to bring you under the personal notice of the 
king, and I did so long to have my husband receive 
the praise and honor he merited. It has all been like 
a winter’s ball room, when the flowers in the con- 
servatory make one forget that the snow is without, 
and the feet of the dancers drown the sobbing of the 
storm.” 

“Until at last the tempest has burst in through the 
windows and put out the lights,” he returned bitterly. 
“They thought they could fill your heart with pleas- 
ure and flattery. Eglantine, and make me forget ev- 
erything but your sweet eyes ; but they did not know 
either of us. We are awake, thank God, though it 
took a thunder-clap to rouse us.” 

The words were scarcely off his lips when the coach, 
which had been moving forward with more speed, 


THE SECOND HOME-COMING. 


85 


came to so sudden a halt that they were almost thrown 
from their seats. Henri was out in the snow in an 
instant, and by the faint starlight struggling through 
the clouds, saw that they had reined up on the very 
verge of a precipice. The horses were trembling in 
every limb, and Martin’s attention was fully occupied 
in endeavoring to quiet and reassure them. Jean, 
with a dismayed face, stood looking over the edge of 
the cliff, down which his lantern had disappeared in 
his frantic clutch at life. 

“ There can be no more doubt about it, monsieur ; 
we have lost the road,” he said sorrowfully. “The 
only thing to be done is for you to keep madame as 
warm as you can in the coach, while I strike out in 
search of some shepherd’s hut. It would be madness 
to go on without a guide, even if Martin could induce 
his horses to attempt it.” 

There was nothing to do but yield a reluctant assent. 
Henri did so, and having seen the stout-hearted fel- 
low strike out boldly into the darkness, turned back 
to the coach. But Eglantine, alarmed by the plunging 
of the horses, had already alighted, and entreated pit- 
eously not to be compelled to re-enter immediately. 

“ I am sure I hear the sound of distant singing,” 
she said. “We must be near some dwelling. If Jean 
could only find it.” 

“Perhaps we have come upon some midnight gath- 
ering of our brethren,” answered Henri, “though it is 
a wild night even for a preche. Hark, my love ; Jean 
has started a sentinel already.” 

Firm and clear, from the gloom beyond them, came 
the challenge : “ Halt, or give the pass ! ” 

“ That is a Cevanol voice,” whispered Henri to his 
wife, and they heard Jean answer sturdily : 

“ I give no word except that the young sieur needs 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


1 86 

help, and asks it. Dost thou not know thine own 
mother’s son, Philippe ?.” 

“Jean ! ” 

There was the sound of a hurried colloquy as the 
brothers embraced ; then a cry, hoarse and fierce, 
from Jean. Henri cleared the space between them 
with a bound. 

“What is it?” he demanded, laying a heavy hand 
on his valet’s shoulder. “ Is aught wrong with your 
good wife, Jean ? Speak ! ” 

But Jean was speechless. 

“ Philippe ! hast thou a tongue in thy head ? Tell me ! 
is there aught wrong at the chateau — with my father ? ” 

“You are well come, monsieur,” answered the 
younger brother sadly. “ But none too soon. There 
is no time to be lost if you would not have our old 
sieur laid in his grave, with you away. They are 
burying him now, down yonder in the glen.” 

Henri put his hand to his forehead. He was only 
dimly aware that his wife stood beside him, her pity- 
ing hand upon his arm. 

“ My father dead ! ” he said in a muffled voice. 
Then, rousing himself, “ But why this haste, this mid- 
night burial ? Why was I not summoned ? Go on, 
Philippe ! you are keeping something back.” 

The mountaineer drew his hand across his eyes. 

“ We have done the best we could for him, mon- 
sieur. If it had not been for Master Chevalier, our 
old sieur would be lying to-night in a grave he would 
have thought too foul for a dead hound.” 

Henri’s fingers were upon his throat. 

“ Take back the word, Philippe, and I will make a 
rich man of you ! Swear to me that I have not heard 
aright. They have not dared to lay hands on that 
good gray head ? ” 


THE SECOND HOME-COMING. 


87 


Philippe released himself with mournful dignity. 

“ I speak truth, monsieur. Our old lord has been 
failing ever since the new year came in, and last week 
he had a stroke. Master Chevalier sent off a messen- 
ger to tell you, and tried to keep his sickness quiet. 
But somehow the priests got wind of it, and forced 
their way into his chamber. When they found they 
could not move him with their arguments, they had 
drums beat under his window night and day, that he 
might not have an instant’s rest. They thought to 
wear out his resolution by wearing out his poor 
feeble body, but they did not know our old sieur. 
Master Chevalier thinks he would have rallied from 
the stroke, and lived to see you again, if it had not 
been for their doings.” 

“ That is not all.” Henri La Roche spoke now in a 
tone of awful quietness. “ They had still the deserted 
tenement upon which to wreak their vengeance. Fin- 
ish your story, Philippe.” 

There was the sound of a stifled sob from Jean, but 
his brother answered sadly : 

“ I should be able to speak it, who had to stand by 
and see it, monsieur. Again and again, as he lay dy- 
ing, they placed the alternative before him — the pub- 
lic sewer for his grave, if he would not confess to the 
priest, and as often our lord told them boldly they 
might do what they pleased to the body he left behind 
him, his soul would be with God. Not once did he 
waver.” 

“ Do you think I doubt that ? ” retorted the sieur 
La Roche, and his voice made even the wife, clinging 
to his arm, tremble. “ Do you think I need to be told 
that that great heart, ever brave and stainless, did not 
stoop to the vilest of all sins at the last ? But what I 
do want to know, Philippe, is this : was there never a 


i88 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


man among my father’s people to silence those mur- 
derous drums, and save his white hairs from this out- 
rage ? Have his years of ceaseless kindness gone for 
nothing ? ” 

“ Those who did the deed wore the king’s livery, 
my lord, and were armed to the teeth. Yet neither 
our loyalty, nor the fear of their bayonets, could have 
held our hands, if it had not been for monsieur’s own 
charge. We were to make no resistance, but to bear 
all- things patiently, he sent word to us by Master 
Chevalier. It was his last command, and we obeyed, 
though it broke our hearts.” 

“And where was Rene Chevalier all this while? 
Did he, too, stand tamely by, and witness this outrage 
to his father’s friend and his ? ” 

“ He was ever beside our old lord’s bed, doing what 
he could to alleviate his sufferings, monsieur, and 
cheering him with brave, unfaltering words, until the 
end had come, and they had done their worst. Then> 
as we sat stricken and helpless in our homes, he came 
to us and bade us if we had the hearts and hands of 
men, rise up and help him rescue the head we loved 
from its foul resting-place, and give it decent burial. 
There were plenty to answer the summons, my young 
sieur, but it was Master Chevalier who first thought 
of it, and has managed the whole affair.” 

Eglantine looked up wistfully into her husband’s 
face. 

“ Have you forgotten, Henri, what is going on in 
the glen yonder ? Ought we not to be there ? ” 

He started like one waking from a dream. 

“You here. Eglantine? You cannot walk through 
the snow.” 

“ I will follow, if you do not take me,” was hei 
answer. 


THE SECOND HOME-COMING, 


189 

It was no time for remonstrance. He put his arm 
about her, and half carrying her over the hard, slip- 
pery ground, sped down the hill. 

“ My father ! the chariots of Israel and the horsemen 
thereof,” she heard him murmur once. It was the only 
time he spoke. 

Jean, who had overtaken them with a stride, gave 
his master a few directions as to the road. The clouds 
were breaking overhead, and there was a faint light 
upon their path. The sweet, mournful chant that still 
rose from the valley, served also as a guide and an in- 
centive to their feet. 

“Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all 
generations,” was the psalm they sang. 

“ It is the one he loved best,” whispered Eglantine 
with a sob. “ I sang it for him the night before we 
left Beaumont.” 

Her husband’s answer was to point through an 
opening in the trees to the scene before them. A lit- 
tle band of men and women stood about a new-made 
grave, over which the sods were being hastily pressed 
down. The next moment he was in the midst of the 
startled, sorrow-stricken group, and would have thrown 
himself face downward upon the earth but for Rene 
Chevalier’s restraining hand. 

“For his sake, monsieur, do not hinder us. Every 
moment is precious.” 

Henri looked at him for a moment with wild, blood- 
shot eyes, then turning away, hid his face in his cloak, 
and motioned them to proceed. He heard Madame 
Chevalier’s voice rise clear and sweet with her son’s, 
in the psalm that was now resumed, and felt his wife 
weeping silently upon his shoulder. More than one 
sob from the faithful vassals about him told him that 
his grief was theirs, but he neither spoke nor moved 


190 


no IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


again, until his friend’s hand once more touched his 
arm. 

“ It is over, my lord. The sooner we disperse, the 
better.” 

Then the sieur of Beaumont uncovered his face and 
looked about him. The grave had been carefully 
covered with loose branches prepared for the purpose, 
and was now not distinguishable from the rest of the 
valley. 

“ It is safer so,” explained Rene, in answer to his 
questioning glance. 

“ And is it for this I have served my king? ” asked 
the young nobleman in a deep, hollow voice. “ Is it 
for this I have known cold and hunger and weariness, 
and shed my blood ? Is it thus Louis XIV. rewards 
the labors of the faithful subject who has risked his 
life in a hundred battles to preserve his crown, and 
would have cut off his right hand any time these three- 
score years, rather than utter a disloyal word? Un- 
happy monarch ! Perjured, ungrateful king ! Thank 
God I, at least, wear his badge no longer.” He threw 
back his cloak, and turning to the awed group about 
him, showed them the plain dress of a gentleman, not 
an officer’s uniform, beneath. “Ay, my friends,” as a 
murmur ran from lip to lip, “ I have resigned my com- 
mission. It was laid at his majesty’s feet an hour 
after the rejection of the petition, from which we 
hoped so much. The last hope of peacefully win- 
ning our rights has been wrested from us. If my 
sword leaves its scabbard again, it shall be in defense 
of our homes, not in the service of a tyrant and a 
bigot.” 

“The petition has been rejected? Our appeal to 
the king has failed ? ” burst in horror-stricken ac- 
cents from his listeners the moment he paused. 


THE SECOND HOME-COMING. 


191 

^‘We had not heard of this,” said Rene Chevalier in 
an agitated voice. 

“ Then you hear it now, mon ami ! If this night of 
sorrows can bear one sorrow more, I have brought it. 
The petition has been presented, and rejected, eight 
days after it was placed in his majesty’s hands by the 
noble marquis — mark the words, my friends, in his 
majesty’s own hands ! His majesty’s own lips gave us 
our answer. He did not deny the statements, made in 
our appeal. He did not plead ignorance of the in- 
fringement of our rights, and the severity of our suf- 
ferings. He was fully aware, he said, that his present 
policy was alienating from him the affection of his 
Huguenot subjects, and must prove prejudicial to the 
interests of his kingdom. But he is so persuaded of 
the righteousness of his undertaking — so convinced 
that the extirpation of heresy will exalt him in the 
sight of God and man, that he will cut off his right 
hand before he will resign it. ‘ He that converteth a 
sinner from the error of his ways, shall cover a multi- 
tude of sins,’ says the Word. Our monarch stands in 
need of a cloak of more than ordinary size, and noth- 
ing less than the conversion of every Huguenot in 
France will meet his exigencies. Do you understand, 
my friends ? Your blood, or your apostasy, must 
atone for the friendship of La Montespan and La 
Valliere. Do you quibble — do you hesitate? The 
swords that are no longer needed in Flanders can be 
turned against Frenchmen. A squadron of dragoons 
has been already ordered into Poictiers.” 

A cry, half of fear, half of indignation, burst from 
his hearers. Rene caught his noble friend by the 
arm. 

“Are you mad, monsieur?” he whispered. “Would 
you goad these already overtaxed hearts beyond en- 


192 


I/O tv THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


durance? Surely, he who lies there would be the first 
to bid you forbear.” 

Henri turned upon him with blazing eyes. 

“ Still lukewarm ? ” he asked sarcastically ; but 
melted by the sorrowful compassion of his friend’s 
glance, instantly added : 

“You are right, Rene. This is neither the time nor 
place for such words, and I do but thank you poorly 
for to-night’s work. Disperse, my friends,” he added, 
waving his hand to the group about him. “ I grieve 
to have given you so sad a pillow after your evening’s 
work, but we live in days when one trouble treads 
close on the heels of another. You will not find me 
ungrateful for what you have dared for the dead, 
when your own hour of need comes. Henceforth, I 
am your brother.” Once more he motioned them to 
disperse, and slowly and sorrowfully they obeyed, 
many of them pressing close to touch his hand before 
they went. 

The minister who had performed the last rites for 
the dead had stood apart, thus far, a silent spectator 
of the scene. Now he drew near and held out his 
hand to the new lord of Beaumont. 

“ Be comforted, my brother,” he said in a low, sweet 
voice. “ The good man is taken away from the evil 
to come. The failure of the petition will not distress 
monsieur in the world to which he has gone. He has 
fought a good fight, he has kept the faith. The suf- 
ferings of this life are not to be compared with the 
glory to be revealed, either for him or us.” 

Little as the words suited Henri’s mood at the mo- 
ment, the voice and manner of the speaker strangely 
attracted him. He looked earnestly into the face un- 
der the wide-brimmed hat. It was one not soon to 
be forgotten, singularly youthful for one of his call- 


THE SECOND HOME-COMING. 


193 


ing, and with a rare spirituality of expression. The 
dark eyes were lit with enthusiasm ; the firm lips, 
with all their gravity, were sweet as a child’s. 

“ Methinks we have met before,” said the sieur of 
Beaumont thoughtfully. “Ah! I have it, — M. Rey. 
There have been sad changes since I parted with you 
last summer at my father’s gate, but I owe you much 
for this night’s work.” 

“ You owe me nothing,” was the gentle answer. 
“ My services belong to you as well as to the feeblest 
of this scattered flock. Madame is gently reared for 
such scenes as this,” he added, glancing at the slight 
figure, trembling with cold, at Henri’s side ; and the 
young husband woke, with a sudden rush of sweet- 
ness, to the recollection of the joy still remaining 
to him. 

“ Eglantine, I must have you home at once. What 
would I do if you too were taken from me?” 

“Hush!” she said quietly. “There is the coach 
coming up the glen. Rene sent one of the men to 
bring if down by a way he knev% and Jean has gone 
on to tell them to have fire and food for us.” 

It was not until they had left Madame Chevalier 
and her son at the cottage gate, and were in sight of 
the towers of Beaumont, that she let her full heart 
overflow, with her arms about his neck. 

“ Then you will not be comfortless while you have 
me, Henri ? ” 

He strained her to his breast. 

“You are my life, ma mie. If I lose you I lose ev- 
erything.” 

“ And I lose nothing while I have you ! ” she re- 
turned. “ Henri, there is but one thing I fear — sep- 
aration. Promise me you will never leave me.” 

It was the old story human hearts repeat so often — 


194 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


hewing out broken cisterns, while the Master stood 
with the cup, and cried : 

“ If any man thirst, let him come unto me and 
drink.” 

As they rolled in under the familiar archway, and 
the flashing torches revealed the sad faces of the re- 
tainers gathered to welcome them, a strong shiver ran 
through Henri La Roche’s frame. Then his muscles 
grew hard as iron. 

“ Eglantine,” he said in a low voice, “we have walked 
side by side through the path of flowers. Do you 
love me well enough to keep step on the edge of a 
precipice ? ” 

She looked up with startled eyes, and read the truth 
in his face. 

“ My noble, brave husband ; you will find I am not 
unworthy of your trust.” 

And for one moment he held her passionately to his 
heart. 

“ I am no longer able to shield you from trouble,” 
he whispered ; “ but at least no harm shall touch you 
which has not done its worst for me.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


UNDER ARMS. 

T here are lulls in the fiercest tempests, intervals 
of deathlike calm between the wildest sallies of 
the storm, when the gale seems to pause and gather 
up its strength for a fresh onset, and its victims fall 
asleep with a sense of false security. For weeks after 
monsieur’s death, and the failure of the petition, a 
strange calm closed in about the inhabitants of Beau- 
mont. No hint of the work going on in the distant 
provinces penetrated the Cevennes. Even the annoy- 
ances to which the mountaineers had long been sub- 
jected ceased ; their enemies appeared to have for- 
gotten the fact of their existence, and more than one 
heart began to ask itself if they had not been unduly 
alarmed, and especially among the younger men, as 
the spring advanced, was there apparent a spirit of 
hopefulness and courage. Their love for their young 
sieur, too, grew into a passion. 

But there was one in Beaumont who was not de- 
ceived by the gloomy calm which had settled down 
upon Henri, after his first passionate outburst, any 
more than by the temporary cessation of hostilities on 
the part of the Jesuits. With sorrowful, clear eyes, 
Rene Chevalier watched his noble friend, convinced 
that the sieur of Beaumont, like himself, had only 
too good reason to believe that the emissaries of 
Rome were gathering their strength for a longer and 
deadlier spring — and persuaded, also, that Henri was 

(195) 


96 


NO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


not prepared to abide the result of that terrible strug. 
gle as passively as his manner might indicate. He 
had sullenly abandoned his threat of avenging his 
father’s death, upon learning that monsieur’s last 
-w^ords had been a charge to him to leave vengeance 
with the Judge of the whole earth ; but there was a 
lack of openness in his intercourse with Rene, a rest- 
lessness under his glance, which convinced the young 
surgeon that something was being kept from him. 

But so distant had Henri’s manner become that he 
would not charge home his suspicions without posi- 
tive proof. The evidence for which he waited came 
at last^ — as the April daisies were starring the emerald 
valley where monsieur lay in his last sleep. 

Entering the cottage of one of his patients without 
knocking, one afternoon, he saw the man hurriedly 
conceal a new carbine beneath the bed-clothes. 

“ That is an ugly plaything for a sick man, Bar- 
tholde,” he said bluntly, “and not a safe piece of 
property for a Huguenot and a good subject. Who 
did you find so reckless of his own safety, and yours, 
as to sell you the weapon ? ” 

“ One who has a better right to give than you to 
ask, M. Chevalier,” returned the man sullenly, though 
in considerable confusion. “ If the dragoons ever 
come to Beaumont, they will find it a harder nut to 
crack than they imagine.” 

Rene took no notice of the impertinence, but, in- 
stantly confirmed in his worst fear, set out for the 
chateau, immediately on leaving the cottage. There 
could no longer be any doubt that Henri was secretly 
arming the peasantry, and inciting them to resistance. 
Incense him — as he probably would — by interference, 
Godfrey Chevalier’s son was resolved to utter one last 
protest against the error and madness of the step. 


UNDER ARMS. 


197 


He would plead with Henri for his father’s sake — he 
would remind him of his old pastor’s teachings ; surely 
their words and wishes would not fall vainly on his 
ear even now. But Henri was not at home, and Eg- 
lantine rose, with a frank smile, from her embroidery- 
frame, to receive her visitor. The slight embarrass* 
ment she had felt in Rene’s presence after her mar- 
riage, had long since been dissipated by the perfect 
friendliness of his demeanor toward her. 

“I have just sent a message down to the cottage 
for you,” she said, holding out her hand. “ Nan- 
nette is poorly to-day, and your visits always do her 
good.” 

“ Then I will go and see her at once,” was the quiet 
answer, “ and come back to you. Eglantine. There is 
something of importance I must talk over with you 
and Henri.” 

The old nurse was fast nearing the bourne ‘‘ where 
the wicked cease from troubling,” and she did not need 
the lips of her young physician to impart the intelli- 
gence. 

“ I’m a poor, worn-out old woman. Master Rene,” she 
whispered ; “too feeble to smooth out my lady’s hair 
any longer, or lay out her gowns, far less to hold up 
the Lord’s banner in the fight that is at hand. Per- 
haps He sees I would do Him but small credit in the 
struggle, so He is kind and pitiful enough just to take 
me out of the way, only giving me these few weary 
pains, like chips of His cross, to carry. I never was 
bold and outspoken like many. Do you think He is 
disappointed in me, that now I am too tired to wish 
it were otherwise?” 

“ Does Eglantine love you less because now it is she 
who waits on you, not 5'’ou on her?” asked Rene 
Chevalier with a smile ; and catching liis meaning, 


NO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


198 

Nannette smiled too, and was silent a space, looking 
out of the window at the far blue hills. 

“ There is one thing on my mind,” she said at last ; 
“ it is leaving my young lady. I could go in peace, if I 
thought she would be safely sheltered from the storm; 
but how can I creep into the safe haven content. 
Master Rene, while she is without, who would never 
let me bear a pain she had power to still ?” 

“You leave her with the God to whom you go. Is 
not that enough, Nannette?” 

“ I suppose it ought to be. Master Rene, but my 
faith is very weak sometimes. Last night I thought 
my own dear mistress stood beside my bed. My young 
madame is dear, but it is not given to any one to love 
twice in a lifetime as I loved her mother. And my 
lady held her eldest born by her hand. I take it as 
a token that Mademoiselle Mignonnette was safely 
sheltered long ago, and she pierced me through and 
through with her sweet eyes as she asked, ‘ Nannette, 
where is the other ? ’ And I seemed to become conscious 
all at once that though my young madame had made 
a grand match, and had a brave young husband who 
loves the very ground upon which she steps, it would 
all go for little up there if she was not in the right 
v/ay. And I woke cold and trembling, and my heart 
has been like lead all day. My young madame has 
made an idol of her husband, and he of her, and I feel 
afraid.” 

“ Yet we have prayed for them, and God is not slack 
concerning His promises,” was the gentle answer. 

“Ay, I mind that, but there is none that I know of 
that says the Lord will take the thorns out of the 
wrong way, because we have been so willful as to 
choose it instead of His. I have searched the Word 
through. Master Rene, and I do not find that any one. 


UNDER ARMS. 


199 


not even the man after God’s own heart, was permit- 
ted to escape the punishment of his sin. ‘They shall 
eat the fruit of their doings,’ so it runs, and M. La 
Roche and his wife have taken the wrong way, and I 
much fear me they are sowing tears and trouble for 
themselves. Hark you,” she added, laying her hand 
upon his sleeve, and drawing his ear down to her lips, 
“ I am not the one to tell tales of the roof I live under 
and the hands that smooth my pillow, but if they will 
not hear my old voice, I must, for their own sakes, 
put the words into lips to which, perhaps, they may 
hearken. My young lord is not as calm and guarded 
in his speech at home. Master Rene, as he is abroad. 
There are strange sounds in the vaults at night, and 
other things than silks and laces in the boxes that have 
come down to my lady from Paris, and better reasons 
than some of us guess why the young men of Beau- 
mont hold their heads so high and wait so upon the 
looks of their young sieur.” 

With a heavy heart, Rene rose to leave. 

“I know what you mean, Nannette. It is that 
brings me here to-day,” he said sadly, “ but God only 
knows whether they will listen to my entreaties.” 

Nannette pressed his hand to her lips in tearful 
gratitude. 

“Speak!” she said eagerly. “Win over my young 
lady, and you can do what you will with monsieur. 
It is the fire in her eyes, and in her thoughtless words, 
that has wrought half the mischief.” 

Henri was sitting with his wife, when Rene re-en- 
tered the pretty turret-room, overlooking the valley, 
where Eglantine spent most of her time. 

“You have something of interest to communicate,” 
he said, when they had exchanged greetings. 

“I have a protest to utter, my young sieur. Fof 


200 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


your own sake, I hope you will do me the grace to 
hear me patiently.” 

“ Ha ! I catch your drift, I fancy. I have just left 
Bartholde’s cottage. Say ho more, Rene. My pur- 
pose is fixed.” 

“I cannot see you perish v/ithout at least making 
one last effort to prevent it,” returned Rene Chevalier 
quietly. “For the sake of our old friendship, M. 
Henri, hear me once more. Surely, your father’s 
wishes ” 

“ My father did not live to see the swords of France 
turned against Frenchmen ! Have you heard the news 
from Poictiers, Rene? No ? Well, then, listen, and if 
you have any manhood in your breast, say no more. 
The dragoons, ordered into the province, have been 
quartered solely upon Huguenots. If, upon examina- 
tion, ten appeared a reasonable allotment to a house- 
hold, twenty were assigned. Our unhappy brethren 
have had no alternative but to abjure, or suffer every- 
thing it is in the power of a cruel and unbridled sol- 
diery to inflict. The horrors of a siege have been en- 
acted upon every hearthstone. Nothing has been 
spared, from the gray head tottering to the grave, to 
the infant an hour old. Every outrage has been per- 
mitted to them except murder. Even the dead have 
not been sacred in their graves. Do you wonder that 
the last spark of faith in my king has been trampled 
out — the last link that bound me to him has been 
snapped ? The cup that Poictiers has drained to the 
dregs, will soon be meted out to Languedoc and every 
Huguenot home in France. Would you have me stand 
patiently by and witness such atrocities, Rene?” 

“ I would implore you not to draw them down upon 
our heads, monsieur ! ” Rene Chevalier knelt at his 
young lord’s feet as he spoke. “At the worst, we 


UNDER ARMS. 


201 


can fly to the hills, and hide in the cleft of the 
rocks, until the storm has passed by. Your present 
course is certain to draw down upon us all, swift, 
inevitable destruction. Nay, my dear young master, 
hear me — for the sake of our old friendship, listen 
a moment more. It is madness to attempt to stay 
the king’s troops with a few raw recruits, however 
brave and however desperate. None should know that 
better than you. If you succeed for one hour, will it 
not be to be overwhelmed the next ? It is worse than 
madness — it is treason ! You start ; you frown ! It is 
well to call things by their right names. The subject 
who takes up arms against his king, puts himself be- 
yond the pale of mercy. He can hope neither for the 
countenance of man nor the blessing of God. Will 
you stain your noble name with this foul aspersion ? 
Will you burden your conscience with this sin? The 
powers that be are ordained of God. No cruelty, no 
injustice, can absolve us from our allegiance. If we 
must suffer, let it not be as evil-doers. Let us, in our 
deepest misery, have the support of a conscience 
blameless toward God and man. See, monsieur ! I 
entreat you upon my knees ; I implore you with tears. 
Destroy not yourself and your people.” 

“ Enough, enough !” exclaimed Henri, motioning 
him to rise. “ I have borne from you, Rene, what I 
would have borne from no other living man. But I 
can hear no more. There is a voice of God in the 
soul, as well as in His written Word. There is a right 
higher than the power of kings to reign — the right of 
every man to defend his own hearthstone. I have 
sworn, if needs be, to die in defense of mine — by the 
honor of my mother, by my father’s stainless name ; 
and a hundred brave hearts in Beaumont have sworn 
it also. A handful, do you say, to the hordes that will 


202 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


pour down upon us ? Ay, but a handful nerved with 
the energy of despair, and less unskilled than you 
imagine, in the use of arms. No match for disciplined 
troops in the open field, but able to cope with them 
behind these rocky ramparts, which Heaven has raised 
for our defense. We stand simply on the defensive, 
unsheathing our swords only in the protection of our 
homes and altars.” 

“ Alas, monsieur ! ” exclaimed the young physician 
sorrowfully, “ you are charging a mine beneath your 
feet, which may at any moment explode, and engulf 
you, without ever giving your sword time to quit its 
scabbard. Have you forgotten how argus-eyed are 
our enemies ? What security have you that Barthol- 
de’s carelessness may not be repeated, or that some 
cowardly heart may not purchase its own safety by the 
betrayal of his brethren ? ” 

“ That is our risk,” answered the lord of Beaumont 
with a pale but steady lip. “ Do you suppose I have 
not counted that cost, Rene ? My band is true as 
steel, to the last man, and Bartholde has had a sharp 
reprimand for his negligence, and is not likely to err 
again. Only you and Eglantine share our secret, and 
though you think me wrong, I know I can trust you, 
as I would my own soul.” 

“You can, monsieur,” answered Rene Chevalier 
quietly, and then, as a last resource, turned to Eg- 
lantine. She had risen from her chair, and stood with 
her hands clasped upon her husband’s arm, looking 
up at him with an expression of glad and fearless con- 
fidence. 

“ Eglantine ! you have heard what I have said to 
Henri. You know I would not utter a word I did 
not believe to be true. Will you let him rush on to 
destruction without uttering a word to restrain 


UNDER ARMS. 


203 

him ? He may hear your voice, though he is deaf to 
mine.” 

Henri looked down proudly and fondly upon his 
young wife. 

“ Answer him, my darling. I am willing to abide 
by her decision, Rene.” 

Eglantine lifted his hand to her lips, and then 
turned proudly to Rene. 

‘‘ I glory in his courage. I am ready to die with 
him, or for him, but my tongue shall cleave to the 
roof of my mouth before I utter one cow^ardly, one 
disheartening word.” 

Then my errand is done. Eglantine,” answered her 
foster-brother solemnly, “and may the God you forget 
have mercy and spare you the fulfilment of my fears. 
My young sieur, I am ready to share your fate, if I can- 
not avert it.” He turned and left the room. 

“ My brave wife,” whispered Henri, drawing Eglan- 
tine to his breast ; but the light had gone out of her 
eyes, and with averted face and mute, trembling lips, 
she listened to Rene’s retreating footsteps as to some 
beat of doom. 

The sweet spring days came and went ; the last 
snows melted from the hills; the vineyards grew shady 
with leaves, and the flowers grew thicker in the valley 
and carpeted the rough rocks. May had deepened 
into the warm, rich splendor of June. Nannette had 
fallen peacefully asleep with her young mistress’ hand 
in hers, and saw her perplexities no longer in the light 
of moon or sun, but irradiated by that splendor which 
is the smile of God. Eglantine La Roche sat in her 
turret-room, and her husband, stretched on a cushion 
at her feet, read to her from an old romance, a tale of 
love and glory. Suddenly, a scream, shriller than any 


204 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


the young wife had ever heard, thrilled out on the 
calm summer air, and looking out of the window, she 
saw Lucille Bonneau running to the chateau, fleet as 
a deer, while two dragoons pressed close at her heels. 
The same moment Jean burst into the room and threw 
himself at his master’s feet. 

“ Save yourself, monsieur ! The chateau is sur- 
rounded, and you are lost if you do not fly.” 

The sieur of Beaumont had risen to his feet. 

“Fly?” he exclaimed proudly. “Am I to think 
first of my own safety, Jean? Drop the portcullis; 
sound the alarm. I will show these hirelings of 
Rome that they have not cowardly peasants to deal 
with.” 

“Too late, monsieur,” interrupted a harsh voice in 
the doorway. “ The less resistance you make to the 
king’s authority, the better for yourself.” 

“ Sir ! ” exclaimed the sieur of Beaumont haughtily, 
recognizing in the grim face that confronted him, the 
features of a captain of dragoons, with whom he had 
fought side by side upon the frontier. “Sir, this in- 
trusion into my wife’s private apartments is unauthor- 
ized.” 

“ I hope you will be able to prove that it is without 
excuse,” was the grim retort, and the officer advanced 
into the room as he spoke, and presented to his former 
comrade in arms a warrant, bearing the royal seal. 
“ Monsieur, it is my painful duty to apprehend you in 
the king’s name, for conspiracy and treason. I entreat 
you,” he added, marking his prisoner’s quick glance 
around the room, “ not to make my task more unpleas- 
ant by offering resistance, or attempting escape. I 
would have found means to transfer it to other hands 
but for the opportunity it afforded me of saving you 
unnecessary indignity. The chateau is surrounded by 


UNDER ARMS. 


205 

my men, and they have orders to secure your person 
at any hazard.” 

Henri took the paper and read it through with an 
unmoved front. 

“ These are grave charges,” he said ; “ I hope my 
accusers are prepared to support them, or to abide the 
consequences of their slander.” 

“ I fear they are better able to prove them than you 
imagine. We waste time, monsieur.” 

Henri turned to Eglantine. Her eyes were fixed 
upon him with a look of agonized appeal, but she did 
not speak. 

“I must go with them,” he whispered. “All that I 
can do is to make good terms for you and my people.” 
He turned back to the officer. “ Monsieur, I bespeak 
your courtesy as a soldier and a gentleman for my 
lady — and your protection in the name of our common 
humanity, for my people. There are no charges against 
them.” 

The captain of dragoons bowed low to the young 
wife, so beautiful even in her grief. 

“ My orders extend only to the seizure of your per- 
son and the search of your chateau, monsieur. If you 
will go with us quietly, I give my word that madame 
shall receive every courtesy, and your vassals be left 
unmolested.” 

Henri unbuckled his sword and tendered it to his 
captor. 

“ I have at least the satisfaction of resigning it to a 
gentleman,” he said with mournful dignity. “ I trust 
my word of honor to attempt no escape will be suffi- 
cient to spare me the indignity of being bound.” 

“ It will, monsieur. And now, if you are ready, we 
will not delay. Your clothing can be sent after you.” 

Once more Henri turned to his wife, and this time 


2o6 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


she threw herself upon his breast, and gave way to an 
agony of weeping. 

“ Only let me go, and die, with you ! ” she sobbed, 
•when she was at last able to speak ; “ dungeons have 
no terrors for me, Henri, if we are together. I fear 
nothing but separation. Only take me with you, and 
I promise never to unnerve you by one weak word or 
look.” 

“ You unnerve me now by asking for what I cannot 
give,” he answered in a trembling voice. “ Be brave, 
my darling. Remember you serve me most and best 
by taking care of yourself. We may win safely 
through even yet. Do not make me forget my man- 
hood in the presence of my enemies.” 

The quiver in his voice made her strong at once. 

Forgive me ! ” she murmured, lifting his hand to 
her lips, and then holding it long and passionately to 
her breast. “ I will try not to be unworthy of you, 
Henri. Remember all I hope for from you — all I be- 
lieve you to be, and do not disappoint me. Let the 
thought of me strengthen your hands. The memory 
of your love, the endeavor to emulate your example, 
will be all I shall need to support me in my hour of 
sorest weakness.” 

She let go her clasp of his hand. As if afraid to 
trust his and her own calmness farther, and unwill- 
ing to lay bare to the curious eyes looking on, the 
sanctity of a last adieu, she turned without another 
look or word, and walked with a steady step into the 
inner apartment. 

Jean pressed close to his master, as Henri was be- 
ing led down the stair. 

We have been betrayed, monsieur. They went 
straight to the vaults, and seized the powder and am- 
munition. Some one has been false.” 


UNDER ARMS. 


207 


Bartholde ! ” muttered Henri ; and a lurid gleam 
broke for a moment the heavy gloom of his face. 
“ He has never been the same since I rebuked him for 
his carelessness. Give our friends warning,” he added 
in a lower voice. “ Bid them save themselves if they 
can. See M. Chevalier, and tell him I leave my lady 
in his care.” 

Jean nodded and slipped away, and the sieur of 
Beaumont looked neither to the right hand nor the 
left as he passed out into the courtyard through a 
group of weeping retainers, and mounted the horse 
assigned him. The last drop had been added to his 
cup. He had been “ wounded in the house of his 
friends,” by one of the very people he had tried to 
save. If Jean’s information and his own suspicions 
were correct, his doom was sealed, and the doom of 
those who had put their trust in him would not tarry. 
Rene was right. He had not only failed to save his 
people : he had hastened their destruction. 

There was a slight delay in collecting the troop, 
some of whom had been amusing themselves, in their 
captain’s absence, by frightening the maids and plun- 
dering the wine-cellar. By the time the squad, with 
their prisoner in their midst, had reached the gate of 
the bocage, Jean suddenly reappeared, and gave his 
master to understand, by a secret sign, that he wished 
to speak with him. Henri dropped his glove, and the 
valet darted in under the horses’ heads and caught it 
up before any one had time to prevent. 

“ We may yet save you, monsieur,” he whispered, 
as he pressed the gauntlet into Henri’s hand. “ Our 
friends lie in wait upon the road. All they ask is 
your permission to fall upon the guard, and rescue or 
die with you.” 

For a moment the love of life and liberty, the re- 


HOJV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


2oB 

membrance of the helpless young wife he was leaving, 
rose strong in Henri La Roche’s breast. But he 
glanced at the solid phalanx of soldiers about him, 
and put the temptation generously away. A struggle 
with these disciplined, thoroughly-equipped troops 
must cost the lives of many of his brave mountain- 
eers, even if it secured his own freedom. 

“ Never ! ” he answered, in a firm but mournful 
whisper. “ I have brought enough trouble upon them al- 
ready. Bid them disperse, and unsheathe their swords 
only in defense of their firesides. I command it.” 

Jean wmuld have remonstrated, but the dragoons, 
jealous of the whispered colloquy, motioned him 
away, and forced their horses into a gallop. 

Rene Chevalier was standing at his cottage gate as 
they swept by. There was no time for speech, even 
had Henri been so reckless of his friend’s safety as to 
implicate him by uttering a word. All he could do, 
as he caught the physician’s eye, was to glance back 
at the towers of Beaumont in speechless appeal, and 
Rene, startled and sorrow-struck, had only time to 
bow his head in silent acceptance of the trust before 
the troop dashed by ; another moment and they were 
out of sight, and Rene, with long, quick strides, was 
on his way up the hill. The courtyard of the chateau 
was still full of weeping, terrified domestics. He 
pushed hurriedly past them and bounded up the steps. 
Eglantine stood in the turret-chamber, where she had 
parted with Henri. The casement was open, and 
through a break in the intervening trees she was 
watching the last gleam of the helmets that sur- 
rounded him as the troop swept through the valley 
below. At the sound of Rene’s voice she turned. 
Her eyes, though desolate, were yet defiant. 

“You have come to witness the fulfilment of youf 


UNDER ARMS. 


209 

prophecy,” she said bitterly. “ Do not think I repent 
anything even now, Rene.” 

If she expected ungenerous reminders at that mo- 
ment, she had, as often before, underrated the nobility 
of the heart with which she had to deal. 

“ Henri has left you in my care,” said Rene, gently 
taking her hand, and leading her to a chair. Even 
had he not done so, Eglantine, you know I must have 
cared for you as a sister. Will you come down to us 
at the cottage, or would you rather stay here ? ” 

She gave a pitiful, troubled glance around the room. 

“ Do not ask me to leave the chateau, Rene. I am 
sure Henri would wish me to stay here.” 

“ Then I will go down at once and bring my mother 
to you,” he answered. “ It is my mother who will 
know how to comfort you, Eglantine. She has tasted 
the same bitter cup.” 

He rose from his seat, but now she clung to him, 
terrified at the memories his words recalled. 

“ Oh, no, do not leave me yet, Rene. It is not of 
me, but of Henri, you should think. Is there nothing 
you can do to save my husband — nothing ? ” 

“ We can pray,” he answered solemnly. “ That is 
not a little thing, my sister, with such a God as ours.” 

She snatched away the hands he had taken sooth- 
ingly in his. 

“ Pray ! ” she repeated in a shrill, despairing voice. 
“Did not my aunt Monique pray for my uncle God- 
frey, and did he not die a shameful and cruel death, 
though there was not a particle of evidence against 
him? Do you want to drive me crazy, Rene? You 
know you think Henri has been sinning against God, 
and has no right to look for His help. Think of some- 
thing to do, I say, or I will go mad.” 

“ You can write to your grandfather,” answered her 


210 


NO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


foster-brother, quietly adapting himself to her mood. 

“ He may be able to do something for your husband. 
And there is M. Renau, too. I saw him in Nismes yester- 
day. Incensed as he may feel at Henri’s conduct, he 
cannot refuse to do for him whatever lies in his power.” ' 

Rene spoke hesitatingly, feeling as though he were un- 
true to hold out hopes to her, which he could not himself 
cherish. But she caught at the proposition eagerly. 

“You are right, Rene. I wonder I did not think of 
them at once. I will write to-night, — no, I will not 
write. Written words are so cold, so empty. My 
grandfather will do anything that I ask him, but M. 
Renau has never forgiven Henri for resigning his 
commission, and he has always been jealous of my in- 
fluence over my husband. He might refuse me, if I 
only wrote a letter ; he cannot when I kneel to him, 
when I entreat him with tears. He has influence at 
court which he must use. And my cousin, the abbe, 
and his sister : perhaps they can do something too. 

I will go down to Nismes to-morrow. Do not contra- 
dict me, Rene. I will not be content with seeing M. 
Renau ; 1 will interview the Intendant — I will besiege 
his judges. People have never been able to say me 
nay. They must hear me now, when I plead for my 
life, my husband. Bid Jean have the coach ready to 
start the first thing in the morning.” 

But before another day broke, Henri La Roche’s 
young wife lay, like a broken lily, upon her couch, un- 
conscious alike of the joys and sorrows of earth, — 
deaf even to the cry of the feeble infant, whose wail- 
ing advent added the last pang to that night of sor- 
rows. Before Eglantine awoke to a consciousness of 
her motherhood, and a remembrance of her grief, her 
husband’s trial had begun, and the Dragonnade, in its 
full horrors, had burst upon Languedoc. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


IN THE CRUCIBLE. 

T WILL die before I utter an appeal so base, — be- 

1 fore I inflict so cruel a stab upon the generous 
heart that loves me ! ” 

Eglantine La Roche sat propped with pillows upon 
her couch ; two flecks of vivid crimson stained the 
beautiful pallor of young maternity upon her cheek ; 
her dark eyes were wide and angry, as they turned in- 
dignantly from her grandfather, gray and bent, on one 
side of the bed, to Louis Bertrand, flushed and discom- 
posed, on the other. A month had passed since that 
parting in the turret-room, and the sieur of Beaumont 
lay in a dungeon of the fortress of Nismes, under sen- 
tence of death. 

“ Do you think I have strengthened and encouraged 
my husband’s hands all this while, to fail him in his 
hour of sorest need ? ” went on the young wife, and 
th£ words poured hot and fast over the lips that Henri 
loved, that until now had been so frozen in their grief. 
“ Do you think Henri would forsake a losing banner, 
even at my entreaty? You do not know the man I 
have loved, nor how I have loved him.” 

M. Laval rose. 

^‘This is folly,” he said coldly. ‘‘You have worked 
yourself into a passion. Eglantine, which endangers 
your health, and renders you incapable of listening to 
argument. We will retire until you are calmer.” 

(2II) 


212 


NO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


He glanced at his companion, but the young priest 
laid an entreating touch on the transparent hand on 
the coverlet. 

“ Consider what we have said to you,” he pleaded. 

A hundred Huguenots in Nismes, as noble and reso- 
lute as Henri, have been compelled to sign the recan- 
tation in the last few weeks, and your grandfather has 
pledged you his word to see you safely out of the 
country. In some calmer and happier land, you and 
your husband can make a new home, and worship God 
as best suits your conscience. What harm can there 
be in making the temporary concession, without 
which M. Renau dares not appeal to the mercy of the 
king?” 

The wife released herself with gentle coldness. 

“You mean kindly, Louis, but you cannot under- 
stand. The soldier who deserts his standard in the 
moment of danger, planning to creep back to her pro- 
tecting folds, when it no longer needs his assistance, is 
a coward ! No amount of talking can make him any- 
thing else. And my love for Henri would turn to 
loathing, if he could stoop so low.” 

“ It is idle to say more at present,” repeated Pierre 
Laval. “Come, monsieur. Eglantine, I am disap- 
pointed in you. I certainly had a right to expect 
that, as a wife and mother, you would show yourself 
more amenable to reason, than as a rash, headstrong 
girl. Have you forgotten the scenes that I told you 
we witnessed this morning — the miserable hunted 
creatures, who fled past us in the wood ; the mother 
who asked bread for her starving child at the way- 
side ; the shrieks of agony that mingled with the 
echoes of drunken ribaldry in the homes we passed? 
The dragoons have not yet reached Beaumont, but a 
few days at farthest must bring them to your door. 


IN THE CRUCIBLE. 


^13 

What will these nice notions of honor avail you when 
a rough hand is laid upon your babe ? ” 

“ My heart can break only once,” was the quivering 
answer. “ Do not look at aunt Monique; it is not she 
who gives me strength to speak. It is the thought of 
Henri. Whatever comes, I must die bravely, as be- 
comes the sharer of his counsels, the mother of his 
child.” She turned and hid her face in her pillow, 
and the emotion she could no longer restrain, shook 
her delicate frame. 

Madame Chevalier, who had been sitting apart in a 
window, came forward. 

“You had better leave her; her cup is full,” she 
said, looking sadly at M. Laval ; but misinterpreting 
the low, heart-breaking sobs, the banker had drawn 
back once more to the bed. 

The docility with which the Chevaliers had sub- 
mitted to Eglantine’s marriage with Henri, had agree- 
ably disappointed him, and he had of late resumed 
something of his old friendly manner toward them. But 
ke could never shake off the conviction, that, in their 
secret hearts, they looked down upon him for his re- 
cantation, and in spite of Eglantine’s denial, he was 
jealous of her aunt’s influence at this moment. 

“ Do not cry so, my girl ; I did not mean to be 
cruel,” he said, touching the bowed head with a rough 
caress. “ If I spoke plainly, it was only to rouse you 
to a sense of your situation, and save you from any 
such ordeals. You are the one joy and hope of my 
life. Eglantine. If this sorrow and disgrace are per- 
mitted to come upon you, I will go down before my 
time to the grave. Think of me when you decide this 
question.” He paused as if for some reply. She 
made no answer, but her sobs were growing quieter, 
and he went on, encouraged. “ Listen to me, my girl ; 


214 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


you are making a sacrifice, which your husband, sol- 
dier and man of honor as he is, does not demand. 
Henri is by no means as indifferent to the consider- 
ations I have pressed upon you as your romantic 
pride would lead you to believe. M. Renau is con- 
vinced, from his last conversation with him, that he 
has begun to waver, and he has already obtained a 
respite of the sentence, and started for Paris.” 

“ And Natalie will add her influence with Madame 
de Maintenon,” added Louis Bertrand, eagerly. “ My 
sister is in high favor with the lady who stands near- 
est the king ; a letter, received to-day, assures me that 
with M. La Roche’s recantation in her hands, she is 
positive she can have the sentence commuted to that 
of banishment. Madame de Maintenon has said as 
much.” 

But they had overreached their mark. Eglantine 
started up from her pillows, white and quivering. 

It is false ! It is the basest, cruellest of slanders ! ” 
she cried. “ You have been deceived, both of you ; 
but you should have known better than to repeat 
the accusation to me. Henri waver, where peasants 
and children have stood firm ! The thought is mon- 
strous ! What but the assurance of his fidelity, the 
endeavor to be worthy of his example, has kept me 
from going mad with my trouble, and given me 
strength to live and bear the thought of a life without 
him?” 

Both men had recoiled in dismay. M. Laval was 
the first to rally. 

“ It is no slander,” he said sturdily. “ I saw Henri 
myself last night. He is by no means as resolute as 
you persuade yourself. When I left him he was sob- 
bing like a child. Death has no terrors for a soul like 
his, but the suffering of a helpless wife and babe has 


IN THE CRUCIBLE. 


215 


moved the will of more than one strong man ere this. 
If you will add your entreaties to ours, Eglantine, 
the work is done. Your husband is already waver- 
ing.” 

An angry light flashed across the white face of Henri 
La Roche’s wife. 

“ I do not believe it ! ” she retorted proudly, resisting 
her aunt’s efforts to draw her back upon her pillows. 
‘‘ Why do you never let Rene see him ? Why am I never 
permitted to write to him ? If you are so confident of 
his yielding, why have you made this appeal to me ? 
Ah, I see !'” as he dropped his eyes, and did not an- 
swer. “You are deceiving me out of mistaken kind- 
ness ; but if you only knew, it would be less cruel to 
kill me where I lie. If I could doubt Henri, I would 
doubt everything. There would be nothing left worth 
caring for, worth living and suffering for — nothing of 
which I could feel sure. But you cannot shake my 
faith in him ; you have wrung his noble soul with 
some ungenerous appeal ; you have not moved his 
will one hair’s breadth from its purpose.” 

Her voice, which had been growing fainter and 
more unsteady, failed suddenly. Pale as death, and 
with closed eyes, she sank back into Monique Cheva- 
lier’s arms. 

“ Send one of the servants quickly for Rene,” com- 
manded the foster-mother, as she bent anxiously over 
her, and almost as pale as the blanched face upon the 
bed, M. Laval hurried out of the room. 

His worst enemy need have wished him no harsher 
companions than his own thoughts, for the next hour, 
as he wandered desolately up and down the large 
drawing-room, listening to the sounds in the cham- 
ber above. He had been so proud to see Eglantine 
reign as mistress here, and to know it was the fortune 


2i6 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


he had gathered for her, which had enabled her to 
bring so much of luxury and beauty into the stately 
rooms. But what did it all matter now ? What did 
it profit him that a stroke from his pen could shake 
the markets of the world, that his vaults yet groaned 
with treasure, and a hundred sails upon the sea were 
bearing home to him the spoils of as many successful 
speculations ? He had failed to shield his darling’s 
head from the woe he had most dreaded ; he was 
powerless to win from the pale lips the word that 
could yet avert the blow ; the wealth of the Indies 
could not quench one bitter tear, nor pluck one thorn 
from her pillow. The gold, to which he had devoted 
the best energies of his life, which he had held dearer 
even than his hopes of heaven, crumbled into noth- 
ingness in this hour of need. “ He that saveth his 
life shall lose it,” a voice sounded in his ears. A door 
had opened into the past. Once more he knelt in the 
murky dungeon beside the martyr’s bed. Was this 
what Godfre)’^ Chevalier had meant, when he uttered 
that warning ? Did he foresee the hour when his 
friend would stand grasping the empty chalice, with 
the subtle elixir spilt forever ? Hurriedly M. Laval 
opened a window and stepped out upon the sunny 
terrace ; but he could not leave the thought behind 
him with the hush and shadows of the splendid room. 
Louis Bertrand had gone down to the hamlet to see 
the cure, and there was no voice to drown that of the 
long-silenced monitor. It was the path of his own 
choosing that had brought Eglantine to this. Side 
by side with his pursuit of wealth had gone another 
purpose, equally determined, though less openly ac- 
knowledged — to set his darling safely beyond the 
reach of these religious differences and persecutions. 
For this he had broken his solemn promise to the 


IN THE CRUCIBLE, 


217 


dead, and separated her from the Chevaliers, and sur- 
rounded her with an atmosphere of worldliness and 
gayety, which had made her turn instinctively from 
Rene’s stern views of life to grasp at the cup Henri 
La Roche held out to her. With a proud sense of 
triumphing over circumstances, the banker had laid 
the girlish hand in that of the young sieur of Beau- 
mont ; M. Renau had been so confident that their love 
for each other, and the gay winter in Paris, would 
obliterate from the young hearts all early prejudices 
and silence all doubtful scruples. But how differently 
it had turned out. Rene Chevalier still walked the 
earth a free man, and Henri La Roche lay in a dun- 
geon under sentence of death. The crown of thorns 
M. Laval had vowed should never touch his darling’s 
head, he had himself helped to plait. Bitter resent- 
ment against the hand that imposed the doom min- 
gled in his breast with a secret terror of the power 
that could thus outrun and circumvent his plans. 

Had he been successful in everything else, to be a 
loser here? Fool that he had been to measure his 
finite skill against the hand that made heaven and 
earth ; to hug to his soul the fond delusion that he 
could outrun the purpose of God ! Too late he saw 
that he had been, not an antagonist, but an uncon- 
scious instrument, and heard — or fancied that he 
heard — through his crumbling plans the derision of 
Him who “ sitteth in the heavens,” the awful laughter 
of the Most High. 

Eglantine is better,” said a low voice at his side ; 
and he started to see that the pastor’s widow stood 
beside him. I knew you would be anxious, and 
came as soon as I could l»ave her.” She did not add 
how long and deathlike had been the swoon brought on 
by his exciting words, but he read the truth in her face. 


2I8 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


“ My pretty, laughing girl ! ” he muttered, turning 
away with a quivering lip. “ It is hard she should be 
brought down to this when I have toiled all my life to 
make her happy. Beware how you encourage her to 
persist in her refusal to the proposition I have made 
to her. It is the one chance of saving her husband’s 
life.” 

“ Beware how you tempt that noble heart in its hour 
of weakness and suffering, monsieur ! ‘ He that sav- 

eth his life shall lose it.’ ” 

M. Laval shook off her hand. He was white to the 
lips. “We are not likely to agree on that point; let 
us drop it,” he said hoarsely. “ I see Jean bringing 
my horse into the court, Monique. There is business 
waiting for me in Nismes.” 

Godfrey Chevalier’s widow was looking at him with 
sad, compassionate eyes. 

“ Eglantine would like to say good-bye to you be- 
fore you go,” was all she answered. “These are not 
times to part in anger, monsieur.” 

He hesitated a moment, and then without a word 
followed her up the stair. Eglantine was still too 
much exhausted to speak, and Rene, watching with 
the old nurse beside her bed, warned M. Laval by a 
glance to be careful. For one sad, full moment the 
old man and his grandchild looked into each other’s 
eyes. Then the young wife’s brimmed with tears, 
and the banker turned away to hide his writhing lip. 

“ I will do what I can,” he said in a broken voice, 
and followed Madame Chevalier from the room. The 
angel that withstood him in the way was forgotten 
once more, and the unequal contest was resumed. He 
must save her from the sorrow that would forever 
blast her life ! 

Before he knew what she was doing, Monique Che- 


IN THE CRUCIBLE. 


219 


valier had led him into the nursery beyond, and he 
stood beside the large carved cradle in which the heirs 
of Beaumont had been rocked for generations. 

You must not go without seeing your grand- 
daughter,” she said softly. “ She has been named 
Gabrielle, after Henri’s mother ; Eglantine wished 
it” 

The infant was asleep. She was a fair, tiny crea- 
ture, as unlike the rosy, dimpled babyhood of her 
mother as a snow-drop is unlike an apple-bloom, yet 
with something in her face which reminded M. Laval of 
his little granddaughter when he had first come up to 
see her in these Cevanol hills — a kind of spiritualized 
likeness, as though her soul had entered into her child 
— such a look, Rene had once said to his mother, as 
Eglantine’s angel might wear, looking into “ the face 
of her Father in heaven.” Slowly, as M. Laval gazed, 
the bitterness vanished from his heart, the vague sense 
of injury he had cherished against the little intruder 
melted like icicles in the sun. She at least knew noth- 
ing of his sin ; nothing of the sharp theological dis- 
tinctions which v/ere working such havoc in the world 
around them. Her innocence disarmed him, even 
while it made him afraid. With a strange sense of 
unworthiness he touched his lips to the little hand, 
soft and pink as a rose-petal, lying on the coverlet. 
When he looked up, Agnes Chevalier, who had been 
reading in a window near at hand, stood beside him. 
She was never far away from the cradle. 

‘‘Does M. Henri know about his little daughter?” 
she asked wistfully. She had never been able to call 
the young sieur by the name by which she had first 
known his father. 

Pierre Laval nodded silently. He could not for 
worlds have spoken just then. The soft eyes saw the 


220 


BO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


trouble in his face. Godfrey Chevalier’s young daugh- 
ter laid her hand upon his arm. 

“My mother has told me how good you were to us 
when I was a little child, and my father was in prison. 
I never forget to pray for you, monsieur.” 

“ Your mother would tell you that was time wasted,” 
he returned shortly, but there was a suspicious tre- 
mor in his voice, and he avoided Monique Chevalier’s 
glance, as they went down-stairs. 

“I wish you were all safely out of the country,” he 
grumbled, as he stood in the sunny courtyard, with his 
hand on his horse’s neck. “You have been a mother 
to my girl, Monique, and I would be sorry to have 
anything happen to you or yours. If you can make 
up your minds to leave France, you shall have all the 
help in my power.” 

“Thank you; I believe that,” she answered grate- 
fully. “But the risk is too great. We have decided 
to remain where we are, and trust God to take care of 
us here. I wish your anxiety was for yourself, my 
friend,” she added, with a quick, gentle glance. 

But M. Laval uttered an impatient exclamation, and 
sprang into his saddle. He bent down the next mo- 
ment, however, to whisper in her ear. 

“ M. Renau speaks of visiting the chateau in a few 
weeks ; beware of him ! He will do all he can for Eg- 
lantine, but he bears you no good-will. He has dis- 
covered Rene’s profession, and will not scruple to use 
the information when it suits his purpose. Remem- 
ber ! you are warned.” 

Before the startled mother could reply, he had 
clapped spurs to his steed, and was gone. 

It was several days before Eglantine recovered from 
the exciting effects of his visit. When she did, it was 
to convalesce rapidly, and to display a degree of cour- 


IN THE CRUCIBLE. 


221 


age and self-control that had hitherto been lacking. 
She no longer hesitated to utter her husband’s name, 
but spoke of him, even to the domestics that minis- 
tered about her couch, in proud, unfaltering tones — 
encouraging them to strengthen their hearts, as she 
did hers, with the thought of his heroic example. If 
she wept, it was when no eye saw ; no word passed her 
lips that could be construed into an accent of doubt or 
timidity; her dark, tender e5^es burned with a quench- 
less flame. It was evident that her grandfather’s ap- 
peal had not only failed of its purpose, but stirred all 
the latent forces of her nature, and welded them into 
one firm resolve — to show her unshaken confidejice in 
Henri, and her anxiety that no look or words of hers 
should be interpreted as a weak wish that it were 
otherwise. 

Monique Chevalier watched her with a might of 
speechless tenderness. Too well she knew the break- 
ing heart would sooner or later feel the need of a more 
present help in its trouble, than any human love — 
that the levees of wifely pride could not always keep 
back the floods of wifely anguish. But when she 
would have hinted this to Eglantine, and won her to 
the surer strength of a patient waiting upon God, 
Henri’s wife turned upon her reproachfully. 

** Surely, you do not doubt him, aunt Monique — 
you, who know so well his high sense of honor, and 
all he has dared and suffered for the religion ? ” 

“ If I hope to see him stand faithful to the end, my 
child, it is because I trust he is leaning on God’s 
grace, not because I think his courage above assault. 
Be patient with me. Eglantine ; the best and bravest 
have failed without that support. Remember Peter : 
‘ Though I die, yet will I not deny Thee ’ — and do not 
stake your faith on anything less than God himself,” 


222 


BO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“ I have staked my faith on Henri’s constancy,” was 
the proud answer, and the young wife turned away 
with a flush of resentment upon her cheek. “ It is 
disloyal in me to permit it to be called in question, 
even by you, and I will not. Why do you try to make 
me think otherwise ? It is because I can trust him so 
utterly that I have strength to live and suffer.” 

“ It is her only gospel,” said Rene, when the words 
were repeated to him that night. “ Do not let us rob 
her of it, my mother, until God has shown her her 
need of something better. We can afford to be pa- 
tient, if He can. She says truly, it is all that keeps her 
heart from breaking.” 

The conversation took place on the eve of their de- 
parture from the chateau. M. Renau was expected at 
Beaumont the next day, and Pierre Laval, in the letter 
conveying the information to his granddaughter, had 
repeated his warning to Rene. Eglantine, who had 
not before heard of it, insisted feverishly that they 
should run no risk on her account. She was now able 
to leave her chamber, and did not need such constant 
care ; M. Renau’s visit would be short, and she could 
easily send for them in case necessity arose ; nothing 
would so embitter her full cup of sorrow as to have 
harm come to Rene through her. 

The claims of his profession, and care for his mother 
and sister, left Rene no choice but to comply. His life 
was not his own to put in needless peril, and the day 
might come when Eglantine herself would need him 
more. From M. Renau she had certainly nothing 
worse to fear than attempts to undermine her faith, 
and these, the young surgeon felt sure, would prove 
futile as long as Henri remained steadfast. On the 
other hand, should the dragoons penetrate to the hills, 
during the courtier’s visit, the presence of her power- 


IN THE CRUCIBLE, 


223 


ful Catholic kinsman would afford Eglantine a pro- 
tection he would be powerless to supply. Neverthe' 
less, it was a sad parting, and in spite of his clear 
conviction of right, a heavy foreboding fastened upon 
Rene’s heart, as he closed the bocage gate behind 
him. 

Had this parting, after all, been only for a few days ? 
What would elapse before he would again hold that 
slender hand in his, and look into the depths of those 
sweet, mournful eyes } Well was it for him that he 
could not part the curtains of the future, and knew 
not what even “a day might bring forth”; well is it 
for us all that a pitying Father is mute to our ques- 
tions of the way, and will not suffer us to increase to- 
day’s burden by a glimpse of to-morrow’s load ! 

Eglantine had parted from them very quietly. To 
her stricken heart the going and coming of other feet 
made little difference, since one foot would cross the 
threshold no more. The days of Henri’s respite were 
nearly over. One last boon remained to be wrested 
from the hard hand of fate, and for this her heart was 
gathering all its strength. M. Renau could, and must, 
obtain an interview for her with her husband. He had 
done all he could to save his young kinsm*an ; he 
would not refuse them this one grain of comfort, now 
that his last hope of shaking Henri’s constancy had 
been relinquished. To pillow her head once more 
upon Henri’s heart, to feel his arm for one brief hour 
enfold her I — it was all she asked ; while with words of 
proud and passionate fondness she would gird up his 
soul for the last ordeal, and pour into his heart a bal- 
sam which would rob even pain of its sting. She grew 
impatient for M. Renau’s arrival, as she dwelt upon 
the thought. The hours of the summer day seemed 
endless, as she listened in vain for the sound of his 


224 


BO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


horse’s hoofs upon the road. At last the sun stooped 
behind the hills, the purple twilight folded down up- 
on the plain. Must she live through another long, 
lonely night without that certainty upon which to 
pillow her head ? Hark ! there was the sound of 
wheels at last. A coach was coming rapidly up the 
hill. It rolled in through the bocage gate, up under 
the avenue of stately elms, into the stone-paved court. 
She could hear M. Renau’s cold, polished tones, and 
Louis Bertrand’s gay, soft laugh. She was glad her 
cousin had come too : he would add his entreaties to 
hers. She laid her hand upon the bell ; she would 
send word to them to come to her at once, as soon as 
they had shaken off the dust of their travel. But 
listen ! One of them had already turned in the direc- 
tion of the turret-room. Had he tidings to communi- 
cate ? As if in answer, slow, heavy feet could be 
heard ascending the stair. Whose were they ? Surely 
there was but one step in all the world to which her 
heart would answer with that swift, instinctive leap ; 
had her brain given way beneath its weight of trouble ? 
There was still light enough in this upper chamber to 
see about her ; her eyes fastened upon the door. The 
footsteps hesitated for a moment without, and then, 
without a knock, the latch was lifted. Pale as death, 
and haggard as if with years of suffering, Henri La 
Roche stood before his wife. 

Eglantine neither screamed nor fainted. Speech 
and motion were as impossible to her as to one in the 
grasp of a horrible nightmare. But the look of 
shrinking terror in her eyes held Henri’s feet. 

“ Has my wife no welcome for me ?” 

The low, muffled voice broke the spell that was 
upon Eglantine. She rose to her feet, with her slen- 
der figure drawn to its full height. 


IN THE CRUCIBLE, 


225 

“ Not unless you have come back the stainless gen- 
tleman that went away.” 

Henri made no answer. A dusky flush had mounted 
to his brow. 

“Answer me, monsieur. Am I to congratulate you 
upon making your escape ? ” 

The beautiful young face was as stern as that of a 
rebuking angel. The sieur of Beaumont fell on his 
knees before his wife. 

“ Have mercy, Eglantine ! Yours should be the last 
voice to reproach me. It was for you that I did it — to 
save you and our helpless babe from the horrors of 
this Dragonnade. You do not know what it has been 
to lie there, fettered with irons to my dungeon-floor, 
and think of you at the mercy of those brutal soldiers. 
I told you once I loved you better than my conscience 
and my religion ; I am here to-day to prove it.” 

She drew her dress from his clinging hold and re- 
treated a step, her eyes flashing. 

“You can say that to me ! You dare to tell me it 
was thought of me that unnerved your heart and 
brought you to this dishonor ? Is this my reward for 
having kept down my woman’s heart and borne my 
pain bravely that I might show myself worthy of you 
— you ? Is this my return for having trusted you as I 
did not even trust my God, for having staked my soul 
upon your steadfastness ? ” 

“ Eglantine,” interrupted Henri in a voice of agony, 
“ they told me you were crushed, broken-hearted ; 
that you entreated me to have mercy upon you and 
our innocent babe ; that you claimed the promise I 
once made you, to protect you at any cost. My God ! 
have I been deceived ?” 

Her pale face did not soften. “You could believe 
this of me,” she said in a dull, stunned voice — “yc .: 


226 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


could believe me capable of weakening your arm at 
such a moment with such an appeal ? Then you have 
never loved me — never been worthy of the love and 
trust I gave you. When they told me you were waver- 
ing, I would not believe it ; when they said one en- 
treaty from my lips would overcome your resolution 
and save our child, I would not utter it. Take back 
your ring, Henri La Roche. It was not you I loved, 
only something I thought you to be. I am widowed 
as the sword could not have widowed me, and Rene is 
avenged ! He would not have stooped to such an act 
if I had gone down on my knees to him ! ” 

Henri had already snatched up the golden circlet 
she had shaken from her finger, and was standing be- 
fore her, as pale with anger as herself. 

“ Be careful,” he said in a low, stern voice ; “ there 
are limits to what a man will bear, even from the 
woman he loves. Do you suppose I do not appre- 
ciate my own degradation .? Why else have I crept 
back to my father’s house, under cover of the twilight, 
not daring to look one of my own peasants in the 
face ? I need no words of yours to add stings to my 
conscience, but you may goad me to desperation and 
repent it when it is too late. You are justly indig- 
nant at the trick that has been perpetrated upon us, 
but you have no right to upbraid me because I could 
not divine you had not really sent me that message. 
What reason did you ever give me to believe that 
God’s truth would be dearer to you than all other 
considerations ? When did you ever speak of anything 
but honor and loyalty ? A man needs something more 
than honor to strengthen him in the hours of agony I 
have endured, and to give him the victory over the 
tempting devil in his own soul, as well as over outside 
temptations. Do I look as if the struggle had been 


IN THE CRUCIBLE. 


227 


an easy one ? Not even for your sake could I lightly 
resign the religion in which my father died, and which 
had been the trust and glory of our house for cen- 
turies. Faith I had none. I do not know what these 
weeks of suffering have done for you, Eglantine, but 

they have taught me that ” Henri La Roche 

paused for a moment and looked wistfully at his wife. 
She had thrown herself upon the divan, and her face 
was buried in her hands. He fancied she was begin- 
ning to relent, and went on earnestly. 

“ I found it out when I was left alone to do battle 
with my own heart. I had prided myself upon being 
a Huguenot, but God was a stranger to me. It had 
been my own glory, not His, that I had thought of ; 
my way, not His, that I had chosen. I had no lan- 
guage in which to speak to Him when I would have 
cried for help. You may well feel disappointed in me. 
Eglantine. I am humbled in my own eyes. I have 
been nothing but a miserable hypocrite all this while, 
and my defense of the religion has been only a hollow 
mockery. I wonder God has not swept me off from 
the face of the earth ! ” 

Eglantine could bear no more. 

“ I wish I had never been born ! ” she cried, bursting 
into an agony of weeping. “ I wish my baby and I 
had died together ! There is nothing left worth living 
for. There is nothing in heaven or earth of which I 
can feel sure.” 

“Because you have put your trust in an arm of 
flesh, not in God himself,” whispered Henri ; and he 
would have drawn her to his breast, but she repulsed 
him proudly, and rose, and confronted him once more, 
holding back her tears. 

“ Yes, I did trust you,” she said in a low, quivering 
voice, “ as some do not even trust their God ; and you 


228 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


have failed me ! What is the use to say more ? I could 
have knelt by your scaffold, and smiled in your face to 
the last, and rejoiced, though with a broken heart, to 
know you brave and faithful, and stainless to the end. 
Do not talk to n?e about religion. You were a soldier, 
and you had your honor. You might at least have been 
as true to the faith for which your old father died, as 
you would have been to the banner of France. Did you 
forget the eyes that were on you, the hundreds that 
would be guided by your example ? If the sieur of 
Beaumont could put his hand to a lie, if Henri La 
Roche could purchase his liberty by a cowardly con- 
cession, what wonder if his servants and vassals falter 
too ? ” 

“ Eglantine,” interrupted her husband in a hoarse 
voice, “ do not speak to me like this. You have not a 
patient, slow-blooded man like Rene Chevalier to deal 
with, and a few more words like that may make me go 
away, and never look upon your face again.” 

She gave him a strange, intent look. Henri’s glance 
fell upon the cradle at her side. The fatherhood, which 
until now h-e had scarcely realized, stirred in his breast. 

“ Let me see the babe,” he whispered. “ Surely, we 
should be patient with each other, my wife, with this 
new bond between us.” 

The appeal did not soften her as he expected. With 
a firm hand, Eglantine drew down the coverlet from 
the face of the sleeping child, and regarded him cold- 
ly, as he bent over the cradle in speechless emotion. 

“You think I ought to forgive you for my baby’s 
sake,” she said in a strange voice. “ It is for her sake 
that I cannot pardon you. You might have done your 
child the grace to die like a gentleman.” 

It was the last drop. White with passion, Henri 
gripped his wife by the wrists. 


IN THE CRUCIBLE. 


229 


“ Be careful, Eglantine ! My sentence has been 
commuted to that of banishment, and every arrange- 
ment has been made for us to leave France at once, and 
in perfect safety. But one more word like that, and I 
put an end to this miserable existence, and leave you 
to find a protector more to your taste. Think well 
before you speak. You are dealing with a desperate 
man.” 

Where was her better angel ? Did she know what 
she was doing ? Where was the love that had threat- 
ened like a lava-torrent to overflow her heart, one 
short hour before ? 

“I have thought vrell,” came in low, distinct tones 
from the pale lips. I will suffer any fate rather than 
accept freedom on such terms ; happiness I will never 
know again. Provide for your own safety, monsieur ; 
your arrangements for leaving France have no concern 
for me. Perhaps God will be kind to my baby, and 
let her die soon ; I could not bear to have her live to 
blush to hear her father’s name.” 

“ Her father at least will not live to see it,” returned 
Henri, as he loosened his hold upon her hands and 
cast them violently from him. “You have finished 
your work. Eglantine. I had hoped in another land 
we might have begun a new life, and learned together 
to know and love our God ; but you have decided 
otherwise. You have stood between me and my God 
ever since I first loved you ; you have ruined me now 
soul and body.” He cast one look of despair and re- 
proach upon her, and rushed from the room. 

She made no effort to call him back. She had no 
idea he wouM put that rash threat into execution ; 
but it did not seem to matter now what happened to 
either of them. ^Vearily she sank into her chair, and- 
let her hands fa^^ listless upon her lap. Was it only 


230 


BO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


an hour ago that she had sat there in the summer twi- 
light, dreaming of his fond embrace, and flattering 
her broken heart that the touch of his lips upon her 
cheek would rob even parting of its pang ? The world 
had come to an end since then. That Henri had 
ceased to exist ; nay, he had never had any being ex- 
cept in her fond imagination. This wretched, haggard 
man, who talked sternly of the happy past, and hum- 
bly of the degraded future, was a stranger to her. His 
words opened a gulf which parted them as death could 
not have done. The solid earth had given way be- 
neath her feet ; God was blotted out of heaven ; on 
the edge of a black abyss she seemed to stand, unable 
to go back, not daring to look forward. Why had she 
ever been born ? Why could she not be blotted out of 
existence ? 

How long she had sat thus she could not tell, when 
she heard M. Renau ascending the turret-stairs. A 
vague inclination to leave the apartment, and avoid 
the interview, crossed her mind, but she was too much 
stunned to put the thought into execution. M. Renau 
tapped once lightly on the door, and receiving no re- 
ply, lifted the latch and entered. He had expected 
that his pretty little kinswoman would make some- 
thing of a scene on first hearing of her husband’s 
change of faith, and he had delayed his appearance 
until, as he considered, the affection and good sense 
of the wife should have had time to assert themselves. 
That she would do anything eventually but gratefully 
acquiesce, had never for a moment entered into his 
calculations, and at sight of the still, solitary figure in 
the chair beside the cradle, he started with an excla- 
mation of dismay. 

“ What does this mean, madame ? Where is your 
husband ? ” he demanded sharply. 


IN THE CRUCIBLE. 


231 

Eglantine turned her desolate eyes upon him, but 
made no answer. 

“ Speak ! ” he commanded, grasping her shoulder 
with a hand of steel. “ I am not to be put off with 
these theatrical airs. Where is Henri, and what fool’s 
game have you been trying to play ? ” 

At another time she would have cried out with pain, 
his grasp upon her shoulder was so hard, but she only 
answered in a dull, dreary voice : 

I told him that I hated and despised him, that I 
would suffer any death rather than have a share in 
his dishonor, and he said he would go away and never 
look upon my face again.” 

M. Renau was not the man to be betrayed into a 
second note of surprise. His fingers closed more 
firmly on the slender young shoulder, that was all, 
and he was silent for a full moment before he asked 
in a voice as quiet as though he had been discussing 
some change in the weather : 

‘‘ Where did he say he would go ? Did he give you 
no hint of his intention ? He was only here on pa- 
role.” 

He said he would go and put an end to his miser- 
able existence,” repeated the young wife in the same 
dull, passionless tone — “ that I had ruined him body 
and soul, and he would not live to see his child blush 
to bear his name. But I do not think he will kill 
himself. Oh, no ; he has not manhood enough left 
for that. He will simply go away into another coun- 
try, where people do not know him ; that is all.” 

Henri’s kinsman gazed searchingly into her face, 
but could read no attempt to deceive him in its sad, 
hopeless lines. 

“ You are an ungrateful girl ; you will repent your 
folly when it is too late,” he said, loosening his hold. 


^32 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“ But I have no time to waste on you just now ; I 
must save that unhappy boy, if it is yet possible.” 

He stumbled over the cradle as he turned from her, 
and the babe woke and cried. With a rush of new- 
born tenderness, Eglantine sank on the floor beside it. 
Hitherto there had been little room in her heart for 
the most unselfish of all passions, but now in her des- 
olation it leaped up in her soul with all the force of an 
unsealed spring. 

“ My baby ! my baby ! We are all in all to each 
other now,” she moaned, and her icy sorrow melted 
into floods of saving tears. 

From the threshold, M. Renau, forgotten, watched 
the tableau with his own peculiar smile. 

A woman who could be moved neither to hope nor 
despair might have been hard to manage. A mother 
who could love and weep like that was still within his 
power. 

Lulling her child back to sleep with tender touch 
and word. Eglantine soon became aware of an unusual 
commotion in the chateau. Doors opened and shut ; 
feet hurried to and fro ; M. Renau’s voice could be 
heard giving sharp, peremptory directions ; torches 
began to gleam in the wood. She knew what it meant^ 
Her husband’s dishonor and flight had been made 
known to his domestics, and the place was being 
searched. She was glad her attendants were too 
much occupied, or too terrified, to bring her lights 
and supper ; she was not ready to look any one in the 
face yet. 

Presently the clatter of hoofs in the court and out 
upon the flinty road told her that the search was being 
extended. The infant was once more at rest. She 
rose from her kneeling posture beside the cradle and 
went to the window. There was a stricture across hef 


IN THE CRUCIBLE. 


233 


throat which made her feel that she must have air. 
The lights were still hurrying to and fro in the wood, 
but the greater number of them were evidently con- 
verging to the black, sullen pool that lay at the foot 
of the hill. Was M. Renau such a fool as to imagine 
that Henri’s own servants would betray him if he was 
in hiding, or did he attach more importance than she 
had done to that wild, vague threat ? Did he really 
believe her husband might have been goaded to the 
crime of self-destruction ? 

“ What does it mean, Marie ? ” she asked of the old 
nurse, who came in at the moment with candles. 
“ What are they doing with torches in the wood ? ” 

Marie, who had only gathered up courage to enter 
her lady’s presence after many futile efforts, burst at 
once into tears. 

“ Oh, madame, do you not know ? Surely you must 
guess. They said it was to you he said what he was 
going to do. God have mercy on us all ! Our brave 
young lord was never in his right mind when he gave 
up his father’s faith and talked of taking his own life.” 

Eglantine turned back to the window and asked no 
more questions. They knew it all, then. With fas- 
cinated eyes she watched the lights move to and fro 
through the trees. Had Henri really taken his own 
life, and if so, was it not as much her doing as his ? 
Still there was no repentance in her misery. If it 
were all to be gone over again, she could not unsay a 
single word : only, it had been better if they had never 
been born. Suddenly a loud hail from the foot of the 
hill made her shudder. There was a hurried focusing 
of lights in the direction of the pool, then a terrible 
silence. They had found something. What was it? 
Surely not the white, frozen horror which she saw al- 
ready in anticipation ! They were coming quietly 


234 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


back, to the house, very silent, but without the even 
tread of those who bore a burden. Eglantine listened 
at last to the old nurse’s entreaties that she would not 
expose herself to the air, and came and sat down by 
the cradle and let Marie close the window. 

“ Surely you will let me bring you your supper now, 
my lady,” remonstrated the old woman. “ It is an 
hour past your time.” 

“ Not until I have heard what they have found.” 

Surely they would come and tell her ; yes, there was 
M. Renau’s delicate, catlike tread upon the stair once 
more — she was beginning to know it so well already — 
and others following him. 

“ Come in,” she said in answer to the light tap upon 
the door, and her husband’s kinsman entered. Jean 
and several of the chateau servants hung back in the 
corridor. She caught the sound of a stifled sob from 
the valet, and glanced anxiously at him, but M. Renau 
stood between. 

“ Do you recognize this ? ” he asked, holding up be- 
fore her a handkerchief stained with ooze. The La 
Roche crest, worked by her own hand, was in the cor- 
ner. She caught at it fiercely. 

“ Where did you find it ? ” 

On the edge of the pool at the foot of the chateau- 
terrace ; there were footprints, too, which Jean swears 
are his master’s. You have done your work well, ma- 
dame.” 

Is this true, Jean ? ” The young wife looked past 
her kinsman to the corridor. “ I hardly know who to 
believe now, but I do trust you.” 

Jean came and knelt at her feet. 

“ It is quite true, madame. I could take my oath 
to the stamp of my master’s foot anywhere, and I saw 
him take the path to the pool when he left the cha- 


IN THE CRUCIBLE. 


235 


teau. I tried to follow him, but he waved me back. 
If I had only known, I would have dared his anger to 
save him.” 

Eglantine turned her eyes upon M. Renau once 
more. 

“ Have you searched the pool ? ” she asked. 

The courtier shrugged his shoulders. 

“ It is useless, they tell me ; no one has ever touched 
bottom. But I will make the attempt to-morrow, of 
course.” 

She rose, and confronted him, with the gathered 
grief of her soul in her eyes. 

It is you who have done it, — you who have mur- 
dered him soul and body. He would never have been 
goaded to despair by what I said, if his conscience 
had not echoed every word. It was you who tempted 
him to his ruin, who deceived him, and made him be- 
lieve that I was weak and cowardly, and entreated 
him to think first of me. He would never have fal- 
tered for his own sake. Until then he had been the 
bravest knight that ever drew sword. No wonder I 
trusted him as I did. I would have put my soul in 
his keeping, without fear. If he had died like that, I 
could have borne it. I could have gone proudly to 
the end of my days, and stayed my heart on the mem- 
ory of what he was. But now ! you have made me 
see him die twice before my eyes ; you have made me 
worse than a widow. Go, and leave me to my misery. 
I have no power to banish you from the chateau ; I 
know well it is mine no longer ; but I will never see 
your face again. Go ! ” 

“ I go,” returned M. Renau, his thin lips folded a 
little more firmly together than usual. “ You will re- 
pent this passion, my haughty young kinswoman, 
when it is too late ; but you have rejected my help. 


236 ^Oiv THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


Abide by your own decisions.” He turned and left 
the room, with a dull glow in his eyes, which would 
have warned Eglantine of danger, had she been less 
occupied with her grief. 

To have been reproached and defied would have 
mattered as little to him as the sighing of the evening 
wind, had he gained his point. But to be foiled, out- 
witted, by this slip of a girl, just after the prize was 
within his reach, for which he had toiled co many 
years — this was an injury M. Renau coul(> not for- 
give. 

Eglantine had made an enemy, patient, watchful, 
unscrupulous. 


1 


CHAPTER XV. 

M. RENAU’S REVENGE. 

F or days after that terrible night the young moth- 
er lay prostrate upon her couch, staring blankly 
at the tapestry on the opposite wall, and taking no 
notice of what went on about her, except when the 
babe in the cradle woke and cried. With secret rebel- 
lion ageiinst the Giver of life and death, she felt the 
blood mounting stronger in her veins, and knew that 
sooner or later she would rise and take up the burden 
of living once more. It would never be anything but 
a burden after this — the existence that had been so 
sweet one year ago, — nothing but a dreary rising up 
and lying down with her grief, a bitter breaking of 
bread and drawing of breath. She did not reproach 
herself for what had passed ; that would have been to 
open a black gulf of despair which would have swab 
lowed her up utterly ; but she no longer reproached 
Henri for his share in her misery. The solemn silence 
of death had extinguished all resentment against him, 
and the excuses, which the living man had pleaded so 
vainly, she herself framed for the dead. 

He had indeed been sorely tried in his tenderest 
and holiest affections, and had only yielded after a 
long and bitter struggle. Why had God tempted him 
above that he was able to bear ? Why had He stood 
aloof in that terrible contest, and left the breaking 
heart to meet the enemy alone ? Where was the door 
of escape He had promised to open for them, the 

(237) 


238 HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


strength He had pledged His word to give in their 
hour of need ? Henri would never have forsaken his 
faith if his God had not first deserted him ! It was 
God who was to blame ; not they. The plea, which 
would have been to Monique Chevalier the disintegra- 
tion of all hope and help for the universe, served her 
foster-daughter as a last barrier against the beating 
floods, and enabled her to restore Henri to something 
of his old place in her esteem without too great in- 
jury to her pride. The explanation which he had 
himself given of his fall she refused to entertain, even 
for a moment. The mournful humility with which he 
had confessed that it was he who had forsaken God, 
not God who had forsaken him, she set down as the 
ravings of an overstrained but naturally generous 
nature. If Henri had forgotten God, what had she 
done? The question would thrust itself upon her 
now and then, but as often she put it firmly by. 

M. Renau had respected her wishes, and had not 
again crossed the threshold of her apartments. Louis 
Bertrand, who had included medicine in his studies at 
the Sorbonne, made her a formal visit every morning 
to inquire after her health, but his manner was so sad 
and constrained, and he watched her with such troubled 
eyes that she was always glad when the interview was 
over. He had always been fond of her, she knew 
that ; and he was very sorry for her now. But what 
did it all matter ? He could not give Henri back to 
her. Her grandfather, too, lay ill in Nismes with a 
fever brought on by grief and disappointment, and 
though she felt a twinge of compunction at the news, 
she was glad she did not have to look upon his bowed 
white head just then. But why did not Rene and his 
mother come to her? It was not like them to think 
of their own safety before hers, nor to refuse theii 


M. RENAU'S REVENGE. 


239 


help because they could not approve of what she had 
done. They must long ago have ceased to care for 
her if their affection had been based on anything so 
uncertain as her words and actions. What kept 
them ? She had shrunk painfully at first from the 
thought of meeting their eyes after the failure of her 
boasted confidence in Henri, but her very dread of 
that first interview made her impatient at last to have 
it over with, and the old loving intercourse renewed. 
She did not care for the words of comfort her aunt 
might speak, but to lay her head upon its old resting- 
place,. to feel Rene take her hand, to know herself 
cared for and watched over once more, this would be 
something even now. 

The longing grew so intense at last, as to wake in 
her the first sign of interest she had taken in anything 
since Henri went away. She had the curtains of her 
window drawn back, and herself lifted to a couch near 
the casement, where she could see the road on the op- 
posite hill. She was too proud to summon them, or 
to betray to her domestics that she longed for those who 
appeared to have forgotten her ; but, oh ! if they only 
knew how she needed them. Day after day she sat 
and waited, watching for Rene’s tall figure to come up 
the hill, or her aunt’s black gown to flutter through 
the wood, as a shipwrecked mariner might watch 
for a passing sail, until her heart grew sick, and re- 
sentment changed to dismay. They could not be in- 
different to her, and she had learned by a casual in- 
quiry of Cecilie, her maid, that they were all well at 
the cottage ; they could at least have written her a 
few words of comfort, if it had been impossible to 
come to her. There could be but one reason for their 
silence : they held her guilty for Henri’s death. She 
knew what an unspeakable sin self-destruction was in 


240 


n'OlV THEY KEPT THE FATTH. 


their eyes ; she recalled their long friendship for her 
husband, and her heart told her only too plainly, that, 
deep as was their devotion to the truth, their love and 
pity for the fallen would have been as abounding as 
his need. They would never have turned coldly from 
him in his misery and shame ; they would never have 
laid one reproach of theirs upon the burden that was 
already greater than he could bear. Then they must 
believe with Henri himself that she had been his ruin, 
soul and body; no wonder they could not forgive her. 

From the moment the conviction forced itself upon 
Eglantine, she turned her back upon the lovely vista 
of wood and hills, that lay beneath her window, and 
seemed to have no interest in life beyond the tiny 
creature in her arms. Little Gabrielle did not grow 
fast, though that was not to be wondered at, consider- 
ing the atmosphere of sorrow and dread that had en- 
closed her young life from its beginning. Neither 
did she cry as much as rosier and stronger babes. 
For hours at a time she would lie quiet upon her 
young mother’s lap, with her dark, wondering eyes 
fixed upon the sweet face bent above her, as if she 
would unravel the secret of its sadness, — herself as 
pale, and frail, and fair, as a flower that has ventured 
out too soon and felt the touch of frost. Eglantine 
watched her with the jealousy of a heart over its one 
treasure, never letting her go out of her sight, seldom 
out of her arms. All the light of her life had gathered 
itself up into that tiny face. She wondered how she 
could have told Henri she hoped God would be good, 
and let her baby die. What would she do if this last 
straw of love and hope were reft from her sinking 
fingers ? She began to take more care of her rest and 
diet, and to teach her sad lips to smile once more. 

The hour Monique Chevalier had foreseen, had 


M. RENAU'S REVENGE, 


241 


come and passed. The prop on which the wife’s 
heart had leaned had gone down with a crash, but 
the mother had come up from the floods, clinging 
with the death-grip of despair to the frail cord of a 
baby’s life and love. The storm had failed to cast her 
on the rock of God’s perfect grace and strength, and 
the hour for which M. Renau had waited had dawned 
at last. 

The heat of the summer had passed. The sultry 
weather had given place to cool, sun-steeped days, 
when it seemed as much a part of life to remember 
as to breathe. Eglantine sat in the balcony outside 
her chamber, keeping watch over the terrace below, 
where old Marie walked with the babe. It was as 
near the outer world as she ever ventured now, and 
she would have recoiled from facing even so much of 
the sunshine to-day — for it was the anniversary of her 
marriage — had not Louis Bertrand hinted, the day be- 
fore, that the child was pining for the outer air, and 
the instinct, which made the young mother unwilling 
ever to let her out of her sight, made her able to put 
aside her own pain, while she kept watch over her dar- 
ling. But she had no power to bar the bitter-sweet 
memories with which the day was charged, and before 
long her stern self-control faltered ; she bowed her 
head upon the balustrade before her, and wept. 

“ Has my kinswoman any fresh trouble ? ” asked a 
familiar voice beside her, and she started up to find 
that M. Renau had stolen upon her unannounced and 
uninvited. 

“ Monsieur ! ” she exclaimed, drawing herself up 
haughtily. “ I thought it was understood that we were 
not to meet again.” 

“ I believe you did express such a wish, my fair 
cousin, a few weeks back, and you will bear me witness 


242 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


that I have taken pains not to annoy you with my pres- 
ence. It is something novel, though, for the sieur of 
Beaumont to be forbidden access to any part of his 
chateau by a guest.” 

“ A guest ! ” Eglantine La Roche repeated the words 
with white, shaking lips, while she laid hold of the 
balustrade to steady herself. 

Her kinsman made her a low, mocking bow. 

“ I presume you can scarcely be ignorant, madame, 
that your husband’s estates have been forfeited by his 
treason to the government. As near of kin, and a good 
Catholic, I preferred a claim which his majesty has 
been good enough to recognize, in consideration of 
some past services, and my promise to eradicate the 
last seed of heresy from these Beaumont hills. Do not 
look so distressed, my fair kinswoman. I am aware it 
must cost you some pain to relinquish all hold upon 
such fair lands; but I assure you, you and your child 
shall never be grudged a shelter beneath my roof.” 

“ I will write to my grandfather to-morrow to come 
and take me away,” interrupted Eglantine with flash- 
ing eyes. 

But M. Renau only smiled, and continued : 

“ I have given orders that your comfort shall be as 
strictly cared for as when you were mistress of the 
chateau. You will, of course, be left undisturbed in 
your present apartments, and your desire for seclusion 
shall be carefully complied with. I would not, myself, 
have intruded upon your privacy to-day, but for a com- 
munication from the Intendant of Nismes, about which 
it is imperative I should speak to you. Allow me, 
madame, to present to you the holy father who has 
been appointed by M. d’Argoussy spiritual guardian to 
your child.” 

“ My child ! ” almost screamed the young mother, 


M. RENAU'S REVENGE. 


243 


taking no notice of the priest, who stepped out from 
the shadow of the window with a low obeisance. 

^^Ay, madam e, your child,” repeated the courtier, 
meeting her frenzied glance with one of perfect calm> 
ness. “You must have known that Henri La Roche’s 
child would eventually be removed from your care to 
the bosom of that Church to which her father returned 
an humble penitent before his death, and which is un- 
willing to let the innocent perish with the guilty. In 
consideration for your desolate condition, the step has 
been delayed thus far, but now in justice to the child 
herself, we can wait no longer.” 

“You will kill her if you take her from me now,” 
answered Eglantine. She had heard him with dilated 
eyes and frozen lips, but now the seal was broken, and 
she could speak with the courage of despair. “You 
cannot deceive me with this talk of the Intendant, 
monsieur. This is some cruel scheme of your own. 
The Church had no claim upon my husband after his 
recantation. He told me himself that his sentence had 
been commuted to exile, with permission for his family 
to accompany him.” 

“You seem strangely ready to avail yourself of the 
benefits of that arrangement, madame, considering the 
scorn with which you rejected it a month ago,” re- 
marked M. Renau sarcastically. 

“ I know my rights too well to relinquish them,” she 
retorted, but her lips trembled. Oh, had Henri known 
this, when he warned her to think well before she 
spoke ? 

“ Madame appears to be under some strange delu- 
sion,” interrupted the harsh voice of the priest. “The 
fact that M. La Roche did sign the recantation not 
only gives us the right to rear and protect his child, 
but lays it upon us as a sacred obligation. It is the 


244 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


duty of the Church to see that the innocent babe is not 
robbed of the benefit of its father’s act.” 

“And to prove to you that I have no part in the 
matter, you have only to cast your eyes over this 
paper,” added M. Renau haughtily. “ It is no more in 
my power to refuse the king’s officer. Eglantine, than 
in yours. Let us end this painful scene.” 

With a sinking heart the young mother glanced over 
the document he put into her hands. It was a requi- 
sition from the Intendant of Nismes for the person of 
Gabrielle La Roche, only child of Henri La Roche, late 
sieur of Beaumont. Father Le Grand was appointed 
to receive the babe and convey her safely to the con- 
vent of St. Veronique, where, it was the decision of 
the court, she should be reared for a holy vocation, 
that by a life of piety and self-denial she might atone 
for the errors of her family. 

Eglantine dropped the paper with a cry, and threw 
herself at her kinsman’s feet. 

“ Spare me, spare me ! I know I have been proud 
and defiant, but if you will only help me to keep my 
baby, I will be your slave all the rest of my life. I 
know you can help me if you will. You used to be 
fond of me once. You meant to be good to Henri, 1 
own it now. Do not let them take my baby from me. 
It will kill her. She is too frail to bear the separation. 
Oh, if you are angry at what I have said and done, 
punish me some other way. Give me pain, torture, 
imprisonment — anything but this. Do not take away 
my one comfort^ my one anchor.” Her voice died 
away in sobs. 

“ Eglantine,” said her kinsman coldly, “ I have 
already told you that I am as innocent and helpless 
in this matter as yourself. Rise, and put an end to 
this miserable spectacle.” 


M. REMAU'S REVENGE. 


Mi 


But Eglantine knelt on. Where was the pride that 
had upheld her in other ordeals ? Lost, swallowed up 
in the terror of her outraged motherhood. 

“At least promise me some delay,” she pleaded. 
“ It is sheer cruelty to take her from me when she is 
too young to know one creed from the other. Let me 
keep her a few years longer, and I will give her up 
without a word.” 

“ Give you the opportunity to steal away with her, 
where we will not hear of either of you again,” inter- 
rupted Father Le Grand with a sneer. “ We are hardly 
so simple, madame.” 

M. Renau had already turned haughtily to the door. 

“ But I will promise not to take her away,” pleaded 
the despairing woman, laying hold of the priest’s robe 
as a last resource. “ I will pledge you my sacred 
word to stay just here, in this room, if you like, if you 
will only let me keep my baby.” — “ She cannot live 
long in confinement,” she was thinking to herself, 
“ and I care not what they do to me when she is 
gone.” 

But Father Le Grand had turned away from her, 
unmoved by the appeal. With a wail of despair she 
threw herself before him. 

“ You shall not go until you have promised to let 
me keep my child,” she gasped. “ There must be 
something that will appease your hate besides this. 
I have jewels, costly jewels ; my grandfather will add 
gold. Take them all. Only do not separate us.” 

“ The child’s soul is of more value in the eyes of the 
Church than the wealth of the Indies,” answered the 
ecclesiastic sternly. 

“ But there must be something I can do — something 
I can give up instead,” sobbed the young mother, 
hardly knowing what she said. “ Is it the torture of 


246 now THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


this weak frame, the racking of these delicate limbs! 
I will bear anything you can inflict.’’ 

“ There is one condition alone on which the Church 
could consent to leave the child in your care,” replied 
the priest coldly. 

M. Renau, who had reached the threshold, paused 
to mark the effect of his words. 

“ And that ? ” demanded Eglantine breathlessly. 

‘‘Is your own recantation, madame. Abjure your 
errors, and promise to rear your child in the true 
faith, and there will no longer be any need to carry 
this painful order into execution.” 

He had no difficulty now in withdrawing his robe 
from her shrinking fingers. “ Mon Dieu ! ” was all 
the unhappy mother said, as she recoiled and hid her 
face upon the floor. Mo Renau and his agent ex- 
changed glances, and turned once more to leave. But 
at sound of their retiring footsteps Eglantine started 
up with a look so wild, that her kinsman, thinking 
her about to throw herself from the balcony to reach 
the child below, caught her firmly by the arm and 
dragged her back into her chamber. 

“ Are you mad ? ” he demanded. “ Father Le Grand 
remains with us until to-morrow, and you have time 
to consider the matter. Marie shall bring the babe to 
you at once, if you desire it.” 

“Yes, yes, at once,” she replied feverishly, and M. 
Renau departed with the glow of coming triumph in 
his heart. Even his enmity might have been satisfied, 
had he been able to appreciate the agony he left be- 
hind him. 

When Marie entered with the little one. Eglantine 
caught the child fiercely from her, and paced the floor 
excitedly, like a caged lioness, pouring out such tor- 
rents of maddened grief and tenderness, that the 


M. RENAU'S REVENGE. 


H7 


child shrank from her in terror. “ Oh, my baby, don’t 
do that ! ” she cried piteously. Then, with the hero- 
ism that unselfish love teaches to even the most un- 
disciplined natures, she forced back her tears, and 
reassured the babe with gentle tones and caresses, 
until it fell asleep. Not until then did she suffer 
the bitter waters to overfiow again, and permit herself 
to face the full cost of the sacrifice that was asked of 
her. There is a sweet helplessness about slumber, an 
abandonment of trust, which appeals peculiarly to our 
care and tenderness, whether the sleeper we love be 
the strong man or the little child. Eglantine’s heart 
failed, as she bent above the shut eyelids and un- 
clasped hands, as it had not done while the grave 
baby-orbs were looking into hers. How fair she was, 
how frail ! Who would notice, and rejoice in her 
beauty, as she had done ? Who would watch over the 
fragile life, and shelter it, as the mother who bore it ? 
She thought of those to whose care the babe would 
be consigned — cold, loveless women, who had never 
known this tenderest and sweetest of all passions, 
nay, who made it a part of their religion to crush 
out every germ of earthly tenderness, who would not 
dare to let the stifled womanhood within them wake 
at the sound of a baby’s cry. Could she resign to 
them this timid little creature, who felt a cold look 
like a bruise, and trembled at a touch or tone that was 
not full of love ? She burst into tears, and sobbed 
until she was too much exhausted to do more than go 
on thinking again. 

That life of gloom and penance which they had 
planned out for her little daughter, what did it mean ? 
An existence without joy, without love, certainly — 
perhaps, an existence with sin. There were dark 
stories told and believed of convent-life in those old 


248 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


days, and the mother, looking down on her unspotted 
lily, cried out that her God had no right no demand 
such a sacrifice. Then her fears took a fresh turn : 
that was an impossible terror. Little Gabrielle would 
soon sicken and die, among those strange faces, shut 
in by those gloomy walls. Fresh agony contracted 
the mother's heart. How could she bear it ? Surely, 
God would not exact so cruel a surrender. There 
must be some way of escape : something must happen. 
She forgot how bitterly of late she had been accusing 
her Maker, and began repeating to herself all the as- 
surances she could remember of His love and compas- 
sion. Surely, He would let her keep her baby ; surely. 
He would send somebody to help them. She started 
at last to notice that the shadows had begun to 
lengthen and that two of the allotted hours had passed 
by. She could not remain inactive, while the moments, 
precious as her heart’s blood, were ebbing away. She 
would have appealed to Louis Bertrand, but she had 
seen him leave the chateau that morning, and guessed 
now he had been sent away purposely. Cecilie had 
just removed her untasted dinner, and gone down to 
her own. The sound of the closing door came to 
Eglantine like an inspiration. Why did she sit mured 
up here, when her child’s safety for both worlds de- 
pended on her resolution? The chateau and title 
might be Claude Renau’s ; but the hearts of Henri’s 
vassals were still his own. She had never ventured 
beyond her own apartments since the shock of her 
husband’s death. She had shrunk with equal terror 
from the memories that would crowd out upon her 
from every gallery and stair, and the shadow of her 
own broken trust in the eyes of the servants she must 
meet. But now these fears vanished like dreams, 
before the terrible reality that was pressing the life 


M. RENAU'S REVENGE. 


249 


out of her heart. She would go down at once to the 
servants’ hall, while they were all gathered together at 
dinner, and appeal to Henri’s old retainers to save his 
child for her father’s and grandfather’s sake. The 
domestics of the chateau far outnumbered the lackeys 
whom M. Renau had brought with him, and would be 
nerved with a loving desperation that hirelings could 
not face. She hoped the strangers would be sensible 
enough of their disadvantage to offer no interference, 
but if needs be, she was ready even to see blood flow 
in her child’s cause. 

“ Marie,” she said, looking into the inner room, 
where the old nurse sat crying over her work, I am go- 
ing down- stairs to make an appeal to the servants. 
Come and sit by the baby while I am gone. I dare 
not take her, lest she should wake and cry.” 

“ Does madame speak of quitting her own apart- 
ments ? ” asked Marie aghast. “ Alas, my lady, it is 
impossible ! It is worse than useless to make the at- 
tempt.” 

“ I am going,” returned Eglantine with dignity. 

The old nurse threw herself between her and the 
door. 

“ Madame, I entreat, I warn you — nay, you will 
have the truth : you will be walking right into the 
lion’s den. There is not one among the crew, eating 
and drinking round the table down there, who would 
know your voice, much less lend an ear to anything 
you might say.” 

“ Do you mean that M. Renau has dismissed the 
old servants and replaced them with minions of his 
own ?” demanded the mistress, trembling. 

Ay, madame, the very day after that awful night 
you wot of, and a squad of dragoons was added to 
them only yesterday.” 


250 


HO IV THEY HEFT THE FAITH, 


Eglantine said no more, but went and sat down by 
the cradle. Then the Dragonnade was to begin at 
Beaumont, and from the very hall whence she and 
Henri had planned help should flow, the scourge 
would go out. A horrible darkness seemed gathering 
about her. She remembered the stcries she had read 
of contracting chambers, where the unhappy victim 
could see the walls that were to crush him, closing in 
upon him, inch by inch. Was there no outlet, no 
remedy ? Suddenly through the darkness flashed the 
thought of Rene. Why had she not thought of him 
before ? She would go to him and ask him to save 
her baby. Even if he were angry with her, he could 
not refuse to help her in this extremity. But she began 
to wonder now that she could ever have thought he 
was staying away from her voluntarily. She recalled 
the deep, sweet look she had surprised in his eyes one 
day during her illness when he had sat watching her 
without her knowledge. He would be true to Henri 
in thought and deed, she knew that ; but his was not 
a love to change or forget. How could she ever have 
doubted him ? The very thought of him, after the 
cruelty, the craft, that had been revealed to her in the 
last few hours, was like a glimpse of heaven. He 
must have tried to come to her and been prevented. 
Perhaps M. Renau had refused to let him see her. 
She could believe anything of her kinsman now ; and 
Rene had feared to run any needless risk lest he 
should lose the power to help her when a greater need 
came. No new bond could ever free him from the 
claim she had upon him, he had told her once : she 
Vv^as a trust to him from God. She had thought little 
of the words then : his love had seemed so calm and 
cold beside Henri’s passionate tenderness ; but now 
the memory was like a strong arm under her. Yes, 


M. RENAU'S REVENGE. 


251 


she would go to him and his mother, and they would 
take care of her, and hide her and her baby away 
somewhere, where M. Renau could not find them. She 
felt almost happy after she had made the resolve. The 
few rods to be traversed seemed nothing in compari- 
son with the haven that waited her at the end. But 
she would have to be wary. M. Renau would be on 
the watch, and she must not imperil her one chance of 
escape by undue haste. She would wait until it was 
nearly dark, when she would be less likely to be seen, 
and the new sieur of Beaumont would be drinking 
chocolate with his guest in the library on the other 
side of the chateau. 

Without saying anything to Marie, for she did not 
wish to complicate the old nurse in her flight, she 
gathered together the few articles of clothing that she 
and her child would actually need, and then sat down 
once more and waited, with what patience she could, 
for twilight. Her distrust of M. Renau and her deter- 
mination to escape from his clutches received a fresh 
impulse during the afternoon by hearing Cecilie tell 
Marie that there had been high words between the 
abbe and the lord of the chateau the night before ; 
that M. Renau had taken the priest to task for pro- 
tecting a woman he had found in the grasp of the 
dragoons, and that M. Bertrand had retorted some- 
thing about “ butcher’s work,” and shaken off the dust 
of the place the first thing the next morning. 

“Louis never could bear to see any one unhappy,” 
Eglantine thought dully to herself. “ Did he know 
what he was leaving me and my baby to, I wonder?” 
But there was no space in her heart for reproach. 

At last it was dusk — kindly, sheltering dusk. She 
seized the moment when her maid had gone down for 
lights, and Marie was in the inner room preparing the 


252 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


chamber for the night. Wrapping a shawl about the 
baby, and throwing a mantle over her own head and 
shoulders, she stole noiselessly out into the corridor, 
and down the stairs that connected her turret with the 
main hall of the- chateau. Now, if the child would only 
sleep on, and she could be so fortunate as to meet no 
one in the wide hall, which she must cross before 
reaching the outer door. She had gained the door at 
the foot of the stairway. For a moment she listened 
in breathless suspense. All without was silent as the 
grave. She lifted the latch, but the door resisted her 
efforts. Could it be bolted on the other side ? But no, 
that was too horrible. She was becoming demoralized: 
a prey to her own fears. She laid the babe down upon 
the steps, and put her shoulder to the panel, — only a 
woman’s delicate shoulder, but nerved with a mother’s 
love and despair. In vain ! Once more she tried. The 
resistance of some strong barrier on the other side was 
distinctly perceptible. There could no longer be any 
doubt. She was a prisoner. The discovery over- 
whelmed her for a moment, but she had come too near 
to freedom to relinquish it without one more struggle. 
One resource yet remained to her — to appeal to the 
loyalty and affection of her attendants. She had been 
a kind mistress to them, and though she would rather 
not have implicated them in her escape, they must 
dare the consequences for her, if necessary. She hur- 
ried back into the chamber where she had left Marie. 
At sight of her mistress, dressed for a journey, the 
nurse uttered a shrill cry. 

“Alas ! my poor lady; what are you dreaming of?” 

“ I am going to save my baby,” was the firm answer. 
“ Marie, the door at the foot of the staircase is fast- 
ened. How long has it been kept bolted ? Do you 
know anything about it ? ” 


M. R^NAU'S REVENGE, 


^53 


“ It is M. Renau’s doing, madame,” returned the old 
woman sorrowfully. “ Do not be angry with me. He 
has ordered the door to be kept closed ever since that 
terrible night, and it was only by promising on my 
bended knees to do as he bade me, that I was ever 
allowed to come near you again.” 

“So I have been a prisoner in my own room all this 
while, and my trusted servants have been my jailers,” 
said Eglantine bitterly. 

Marie cowered beneath her look. 

“ Pardon, my lady. I had no choice between that 
and never seeing your face again. How could I leave 
you in your sorrow to be cared for by strangers, and 
the precious babe to be handled by ignorant maids, 
who would never have the heart nor the sense to care 
fitly for so frail a creature ? ” 

“You love my baby?” cried Eglantine, throwing 
her arms about the neck of her old retainer. “Then 
you will help me to save her, Marie — my good Marie ! 
You will not keep us penned up here to have her torn 
from my arms ! You know it will kill her to be parted 
from me. Marie, you have borne children. You know 
w'hat it is to have a little head nestle in your breast. 
You will not let them take away the one comfort that 
is left to me. You cannot turn away from me as those 
cruel men have done. Open the door, and help me to 
save my baby.” 

The old nurse sank on the floor at her feet and cov- 
ered her hand with kisses. But there was no sign of 
yielding in her face. 

“ I dare not ! ” she moaned. “ M. Renau has taken 
good care to bind me with fetters I dare not break. 
In some way he has discovered that my boy was a 
member of the young sieur’s band, and he has threat- 
ened to give him up to death if I ever let you quit 


2S4 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


your room. Do not be angry with me, my lady ; my 
Baptiste is as dear to me as your baby is to you, and 
it was monsieur, your husband, who tempted him to 
the folly.” 

Pale as death, Henri La Roche’s widow started to 
her feet, and motioned to the unhappy mother to say 
no more. Her sin could not have come home to her 
in a more terrible hour. Every instinct of honor and 
delicacy forbade her to urge Marie further. There 
was but one resource left. She returned to the outer 
apartment, and sitting down by the cradle, waited for 
Cecilie’s return. The girl was a Parisian, whom she 
had brought back from the capital. There was little 
to be hoped for from her goodness of heart, but she 
might be open to bribes. In a few moments Eglan- 
tine heard her singing a gay light air, as she unbolted 
the lower door and tripped up the stair. At sight of 
the muffled figure that rose to meet her as she entered 
the turret-room, the maid started back with a little 
shriek of dismay. 

“ Cecilie,” said her mistress in a firm, determined 
voice, “ I heard you lock the door at the foot of the 
stairs ; you have the key in your pocket. You must 
go down with me and let me out.” 

Cecilie hung her head for a moment, and then tossed 
it defiantly. 

“ I will not unlock the door until I go down to get 
my supper,” she returned insolently. “ There’s more 
than you as gives orders in the chateau now, my lady, 
and my new master makes it worth my while to obey 
him.” 

There was but one argument to use in such a case. 
Eglantine drew a gold chain from the casket of jewels 
she was preparing to take with her, and held it up in 
the candle-light. 


M. RENAU’S REVENGE. 


255 


“ It will be worth a year’s wages to you, if you will 
go back and open the door,” she said quietly. “ 1 do 
not ask anything else of you, Cecilie.” 

The girl looked covetously at the gold, but hesi- 
tated. 

“ I have promised,” she said doubtfully. “ I do not 
know what he will do to me if I break my word.” 

The young mother saw that she must bid higher, 
and laid a pair of ruby earrings beside the chain. 

“ A bad promise is better broken than kept,” she 
said coolly. 

The giddy Parisian peeped into the inner room, to 
make sure that Marie was not a spectator of the trans- 
action, and covered the trinkets with a move of her 
deft little hand. 

“You have been a liberal mistress to me, and I 
don’t care if I do oblige you this once,” she said care- 
lessly, and turned to the door. Eglantine needed no 
further hint, and with her babe held tightly to her 
heart, stole noiselessly after her. A moment more, 
and she was beyond the hated portal, crossing the 
wide hall of the chateau, free ! Now if God would be 
good to her, and let her reach the outer air and the 
gate of the bocage safely ! Thank Heaven, the child 
was still sleeping. She hesitated a moment on the 
edge of the court, in which the torches were just be- 
ing lit, then, soft-footed as one of the evening shad- 
ows, glided across the square, and gained the wood. 
She heard voices in the park, but she avoided them 
by turning into one of the side paths. Was God go- 
ing to let her escape after all } Yes, there were the 
iron gates of the bocage, visible in the uncertain light. 
Until now she had been very calm, but at sight of the 
freedom within her reach she began to tremble. It 
was well she would not have far to go ; her long con- 


256 THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


finement had made her weaker than she knew. Now 
she had gained the gate, her hand was on the latch ; 
another moment, and she will be free. 

“ My kinswoman takes a late hour for her ramble,” 
said M. Renau’s sarcastic voice at her elbow. 

She was too terrified to scream ; she could only 
support her trembling limbs against the gate and re- 
gard him with despairing eyes. 

“ What ! the little one, too ? ” he went on in the 
same tone of ironical surprise. “ I am sure you did 
not consult our old nurse about this undertaking or 
she would have warned you to be more careful of the 
child’s health. Permit me, madame, to give you my 
arm back to the chateau.” 

He would have laid her tiembling fingers upon his 
sleeve, but she shrank from him as from a serpent. 

“ I will not go back,” she cried in a sudden frenzy 
of despair. “You may kill my child and me where 
we stand, but I will not go back with you.” 

“Where, then, will you go?” he asked quietly. “I 
suppose you are aware that your heretic friends left for 
parts unknown weeks ago. The authorities received 
information of M. Chevalier’s secret profession, but 
just a little too late. He had contrived to take him- 
self and his belongings out of the way before they 
called.” 

She made him no answer. It did not occur to her 
to question his statement. With no strength or im- 
pulse to resist left in her, she turned and walked back 
to the house at her kinsman’s side. A terrible fear 
had fallen upon her that it was God, after all, who was 
pursuing and hemming her in — the God of whom she 
had so seldom thought until this sore strait, and to 
whom she had only turned now because all other help 
had failed. 


M. RENAU'S REVENGE. 


257 


“ How did you know I had left ? Did God or the 
devil tell you ? ” she asked, pausing for a moment be- 
fore entering the hall to look into M. Renau’s face. 

“ If it was a fiend, it was a pretty one,” answered 
her captor lightly. The next time you attempt to 
bribe one of my servants, madame, I advise you to 
try one less devoted to my interests, and do not part 
with your jewels until you are sure of your prize.” 

Then Cecilie had betrayed her, with the echo of her 
mistress’ fervent “ God bless you ! ” still in her ears. 

In perfect silence Eglantine suffered herself to be 
led back to her apartment, and locked in like a cap- 
tured criminal. There was no sleep for her that night. 
On her knees beside her child’s cradle she watched 
the dark hours through with wide open, tearless eyes. 
Until now she had resolutely refused to consider that 
other way of escape, the humiliating alternative of 
recantation ; but in the still watches it forced itself 
upon her, and would not down. The story Nannette 
had told her long ago in the firelight came too. 

“If you are ever tempted to part with the pearl, re- 
member it was purchased for you with a broken heart,” 
her old nurse had said to her gravely. She could ap- 
preciate the cost now as she did not when Nannette 
had first told her the story, and yet — the truth her 
mother had bought for her with so costly a price, she 
had surrendered to save her eldest born. Would God 
be very angry with her if she. Eglantine La Roche, 
should hold the clasp of those baby-fingers dearer than 
words ? Did He really care as much about what went 
on in the world, as some people thought — as her aunt 
Monique had always taught her to believe? Who 
could be sure that the Maker of heaven and earth 
cared anything for the hearts that were struggling and 
agonizing for His cause down here ; that He who sat 


58 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


upon the circle of the heavens took any interest in this 
strife about creeds and dogmas ? Who could be quite 
sure about anything? She looked out of her window 
up at the silent, overhanging peaks, and thought of 
the word her uncle had chosen for her long ago, and 
which he had said would be a comfort to her in any 
time of need : 

“ My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven 
and earth,” No, He had not helped her, and yet the 
strength of the hills was His. It would have been as 
easy for Him to break the bonds that held her, as to 
stir a leaf in the wood, but she had cried to Him in 
vain. It could only be that He did not care. Was it 
for this she had scorned Henri, had goaded his noble 
heart with reproaches, and sent him out to his death ? 
She remembered how he had stood before her in this 
very room, and pleaded with her to let him save her 
and the child. If she had only listened to him, had 
only been a little less proud and bitter, he might be 
living now, and they all be safe and happy in another 
land. As the first gray light streamed into the room, 
she fell on her knees beside the bed. 

“ Henri, my husband, you are avenged ! ” she cried. 

The battle was won. Before noon. Father Le Grand 
was on his way back to Nismes, alone, and Eglantine 
sat in her turret-room, with a great weight upon her 
heart, but her baby still clasped safely in her arms. 

That evening, as Marie was assisting her to her 
couch, — for Eglantine had refused passionately to 
have Cecilie come near her again, — the old nurse 
slipped a paper into her lady’s hand. 

“ Do not say I did not do what I could for you, 
madame ! It is as much as my life is worth to bring 
you this, but I could not hold out against your white 
face, and the young gentleman’s entreaties,” 


M. RENAU’S REVENGE. 


259 


Marie, of whom are you speaking ? Who gave you 
this?” Eglantine had begun to tremble nervously. 

Marie laid her finger upon her lips, and glanced 
round her warningly. 

“ Walls have ears, my lady. There are names I dare 
not breathe even here. A peddler was here this after- 
noon selling laces and ribbons to the maids down- 
stairs, and he slipped the paper into my hand with a 
kerchief that I bought. ‘ Put it yourself into your 
lady’s hand,’ he whispered, ‘and tell her to hold it to 
the candle when she reads.’ That was all, madame, 
for one of the girls was plucking at his sleeve; but in 
spite of the strange face, I knew the voice that spoke 
such cheer to my poor Baptiste when he was sick last 
winter, and I did not draw a free breath till I saw him 
and his peddler’s wallet out of the gate.” 

“ You are quite sure he went away safely ? ” 

“Quite sure, madame.” 

“Then thank you very much, Marie. You can sit 
in the other room until I call you.” 

But for several minutes after she was left alone. 
Eglantine sat with her face buried in her hands. 
Marie’s words left no doubt as to the identity of the 
peddler, but the thought of Rene was agony to her 
now. She shrank from reading what he had written 
as from some impending torture, yet lacked the resolu- 
tion to destroy the letter unread. Twenty-four hours 
sooner the consciousness that he was near her, watch- 
ing over her — would perhaps try to see her — would 
have been the promise of salvation. Now it terrified 
her. The step she had taken would wear but one light 
in Rene’s true, sorrowful eyes. Yet she must tell him. 
He must know that it was useless to try and see her, 
or run any further risk. She looked to see that the 
curtains were drawn over her casement, and then held 


26 o 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


the paper to the light and watched the hidden char- 
acters leap out, each stroke firm and true as Rene 
himself. The words were not many. He had evi- 
dently feared to run any risk until he had ascertained 
whether this message would reach her safely. 

“ Let me know how you are, and if you need me. 
We have written you again and again, but received no 
reply. I have been in the chateau several times, but 
could learn nothing of you, except that you never 
leave your own apartments. Once I reached the door 
at the foot of your staircase, and found it locked. Let 
me know if you are in stress or peril of any kind, and 
I will find means to reach you. We have been forced 
to seek shelter in the hills, but I am in Beaumont 
every day, and will be under your balcony to-night as 
the bell chimes nine. Fasten your answer to a weight, 
and let it down with a cord, but do not attempt to 
speak.” 

Eglantine read the letter through twice, and then 
with a firm hand held it to the flame of the candle, and 
watched it crumble into ashes. Once a slight quiver 
ran across her lips, but her heart was too full of bit- 
terness to weep. Yesterday these words would have 
been as sweet to her as the sound of rescuing bugles 
to a beleaguered town. Now they were less than the 
trembling cinders into which they turned. She glanced 
up at the Swiss timepiece over her mantel. It wanted 
but a few minutes of the appointed hour. From a 
secret drawer in her dressing-table she drew forth the 
Testament which Rene had given her long ago, ana 
which for its memories’ sake she had withheld that 
day, when surrendering her other Huguenot books to 
the priest. She would lower that to him instead of a 
letter. It would tell him more plainly than words thai 


M. RENAU'S REVENGE. 


261 

the last tie was sundered between them. But no ; he 
might fail to understand, and it was imperative he 
should be made to realize that he must not come near 
her or attempt to see her again. She dipped her pen 
in the ink, and wrote hurriedly on the fly-leaf, just be- 
neath the childish inscription, which she did not dare 
to read over now: 

“Your letter has come too late. I have signed the 
recantation. I have stooped to the sin for which I 
scorned Henri, and drove him to his death. I do not 
deserve that you should have run this risk for me. I 
only write to tell you you must not come near me or 
try to see me again. Forget from this day that you 
ever had a sister. Eglantine.” 

She had resolved to add no word of explanation, 
remembering how she had rejected all excuses from 
Henri ; but the longing to tell them how sorely she 
had been tried, proved too strong, and after a mo- 
ment’s struggle, she added : 

“I did it to save my baby. I tried to come to you, 
but he found me and brought me back. Forgive me 
if you can. I am very miserable.” 

She closed the book, fastened it securely to a cord, 
and stole out into her balcony, as the chapel in the 
hamlet tolled for nine. A slight cough from the ter- 
race below told her when the book was received, and 
blushing to know that Rene’s true eyes were lifted to 
her even in the darkness, she turned in a panic, and 
fled back into her chamber. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“ OUT OF THE DEPTHS.” 

<‘\/OU are looking pale, madame ; I fear you feel 
1 the confinement to your apartments.” 

The early service in the chateau chapel was just 
ended, and M. Renau, cool and bland as the October 
day without, laid a detaining hand on the slender, 
black-robed figure, which would have glided past him 
without a word. Attendance upon matins was one of 
the new duties imposed upon Eglantine by her confes- 
sor, and she was scrupulously exact in the observance 
of the religious rite ; but unless directly addressed by 
Henri’s kinsman, she always went and came without 
taking any notice of his presence. M Renau had en- 
joyed his triumph to the full, but he began to be some- 
what uneasy at the weary face, and broken, spiritless 
manner of his victim. He had vowed to humble her 
pride to the dust, and punish her for her rejection of 
Henri and her destruction of his plans, by forcing her 
to the concession for which she had despised her hus- 
band, but he was not ready to scandalize society, or to 
incense M. Laval by having her fade like a flower in 
his grasp. The banker was now convalescent, and 
growing imperious in his demand for his grand- 
daughter to come down to him at Nismes. It would 
not be easy to quiet him much longer with the plea 
that Eglantine herself refused to leave the chateau, 
and M. Renau might find it hard to carry out the re- 
maining part of his revenge, if M. Laval should take 
(262) 


“Oi/r OF THE DEPTH ST 263 

matters in his own hand, and come up in person to 
Beaumont. 

“ I must insist that you spend a couple of hours in 
the garden every day,” he went on suavely, yet with 
something in his tone that reminded his listener of the 
master. It is necessary for the child’s health as well 
as yours, that you take more exercise. I will give 
strict orders that the soldiers and new servants leave 
you unmolested, and Marie shall always watch over 
the babe while you are gone.” 

The mother lifted her eyes for a moment to his face, 
and then fixed them once more on the floor. He 
might safely enough open her prison-doors, and bid 
her wander to the ends of the earth while he kept the 
babe in his own grasp : he knew well she would not 
stray far from that cradle ; l ut the hint in reference 
to her child’s health touched a secret terror in her 
heart, and stimulated her to avail herself of the per- 
mission thus accorded. And every day after that, the 
young madame might be seen walking slowly to and 
fro in one of the avenues of the bocage. Her long 
seclusion — her youth, beauty, and many sorrows — had 
excited much interest among the new retainers of the 
chateau, but M. Renau’s orders were peremptory : 
madame was not to be spoken to or interfered with in 
any way; and after it was discovered that she pre- 
ferred the path leading to the fig and olive plantation 
on the side of the hill, neither soldiers nor servants 
ventured into that part of the park during the hour 
that she took her airing. Eglantine had chosen the 
path because it commanded a good view of her cham- 
ber window, and through every opening in the trees 
she could look up and see Marie sitting at work beside 
the child’s cradle. When the view was interrupted by 
the shrubbery she would walk with her eyes cast upon 


264 THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 

the ground, taking no notice of the bright autumn 
beauty of the woods about her ; sometimes she would 
be compelled to rest for a few moments on one of the 
rustic seats placed here and there in the wood, and 
then she would sit so mute and motionless, with list- 
less hands dropped upon her lap, that the birds hopped 
about unscared at her feet, and even a timid rabbit 
would now and then scurry across her path. 

It was as she sat thus one day — a little deeper in 
the shade than usual, for the sun was warm — that she 
saw a servant coming down the avenue with a basket 
of grapes on his arm. She had noticed the man once 
or twice before, dressing the flow'-er-borders on the 
terrace, and Marie had told her he was one of the 
new gardeners. But what was he humming, as he 
strolled carelessly along ? The sharp, penetrative 
voice, with a strong Northern accent, brought the 
words to her ear, though they were scarcely spoken 
above his breath : 

“ I waited patiently for the Lord, and He inclined 
His ear unto me, and heard my cry.” 

What could it mean Who could be so mad as to 
sing one of Clement Marot’s psalms under the very 
walls of the chateau ? Was the man a recusant Hu- 
guenot — did he know what he was doing ? Why had 
he chosen the words that so peculiarly suited her 
case ? Surely M. Renau would not employ any but 
staunch Catholics in his service. She cast a fright- 
ened, hurried look at the figure approaching her. 
She had certainly never seen the man before. He 
had stopped humming the psalm, and was whistling 
an air, which had been a great favorite among the 
work-people of La Rochelle ; the sound woke memo- 
ries which made her tremble, but the gardener was 
evidently quite unconscious of her proximity. He 


OUT OF THE DEPTHSr 


265 


seemed absorbed in some object upon the opposite 
wall ; apparently he would have passed her, without 
taking any notice of her presence, had not his basket 
jostled against a low-hanging bough and part of the 
contents spilled on the ground at her feet. It was a 
moment’s work to gather the fruit up quickly and to 
hurry on his way, but Eglantine’s quick ear had caught 
a whisper in that second : 

“ Be comforted, dear lady ; friends are near.” 

Nothing more ; and before she could rally her 
startled senses, and try to question him, he was out 
of sight. 

The next day she was earlier in the park than 
usual, and remained longer ; but though she could 
see Pepin — as Marie had told her the soldiers had 
nicknamed the gardener, on account of his low stat- 
ure — working at some distance, he did not come near 
enough for her to venture to speak to him. The next 
day and the next she did not see him at all. The mo- 
mentary excitement kindled by his words flickered 
out. She had either been the victim of a cruel hoax, 
or else her brain was beginning to give way, and she 
had imagined the whole affair. But suddenly, on the 
fourth morning, as she sat with closed eyes in her ac- 
customed seat in the wood, a bouquet of flowers was 
laid between her fingers. She opened her eyes in- 
stantly ; there was no one near her, but Pepin, at a 
little distance, was trimming the oleander bushes. As 
soon as he saw that he was observed, and that she 
was about to come to him, he shook his head and re- 
treated slowly, looking at the flowers in her hand. 
Then Eglantine saw a slip of paper, laid in the cup of 
the white lily in the centre of the bunch. She drew it 
out with trembling fingers. Pepin smiled and nod- 
ded, laid his finger upon his lips, and vanished in the 


266 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


wood. The note bore no visible characters, but this 
time Eglantine needed no hint to send her hurrying 
back to her chamber, and, as soon as the door was 
securely fastened behind her, to light a candle, and 
hold the scrap of paper to the flame. As she had al- 
ternately hoped and feared, the writing was Rene’s ; 
but what did his message mean ? All at once a hun- 
dred hammers began to beat upon her brain and the 
world to recede from her grasp. 

Not in the chateau-pool, but in the prison of 
Toulouse ; not faithless, but believing.” 

That was all ; but the next moment Eglantine La 
Roche, with a transfigured face, was pressing the bit 
of paper to her breast, and sobbing her husband’s 
name. Then she had not murdered him ; if he was 
dead — and even in her first rush of joy she was not 
blind to the careful wording of Rene’s message — he 
had not died by his own hands, but suffering for the 
truth. “Not faithless, but believing.” For many 
minutes she could do nothing but sit quiet and take 
in the intense relief of the thought. Not until now 
did she realize how heavy had been the weight of re- 
morse which had been crushing out her very life. He 
must have gone back to Nismes and withdrawn his 
recantation, while she lay there dumb with misery, 
holding herself guilty of his death, and reproaching 
God. He had witnessed a good confession, had kept 
the faith, and fought a good fight while she had be- 
lieved him a reproach among his people, and an out- 
cast from the mercy of his God. While she had been 
mourning him as undone, he was perhaps rejoicing 
before the throne. Did M. Renau know this all this 
while ? It was not possible that Henri could have 
been cast into prison without his knowledge. Was 
this the reason why he had kept her there a pris- 


OUT OF THE DEPTHS." 


267 


oner, had intercepted Rene’s letters, and dismissed 
all the old servants from the place? Had he been 
afraid that the truth would reach her, and nerve her 
soul to a resistance which nothing could overcome? 
Or had it been only to gratify his revenge for her 
thwarting of his plans, that he had inflicted upon her 
these slow months of torture? With a dawning con- 
sciousness of the cruelty and craft that had been 
slowly enfolding her with its coils, the unhappy 
woman buried her face in her hands. As she did so 
her brow came in contact with the marble crucifix on 
her dressing-table, and a low cry of despair escaped 
her lips. For a moment she had forgotten her own 
fall and the hopelessness of all return for her. But 
now it rushed back upon her with overwhelming force. 
The path of restoration, which Henri had trodden with 
such unfaltering feet, for her was irremediably closed. 
If it had been too much for her to put those baby- 
hands away from her a few weeks before, it was a 
hundred times more impossible now that the small 
face upon her breast was growing every day more 
spiritually fair. A terrible conviction had fallen upon 
her. Ever since her abjuration, little Gabrielle had 
been slowly failing, and the delicacy, which could easily 
be accounted for by her own days and nights of grief, 
had for the conscience-stricken mother but one signifi- 
cance. God had taken notice of her sin after all, and 
was about to enter into judgment. She had let her 
child come between them, and He was a very jealous 
God. 

“ Henri, Henri ! neither in this world or the next 
will I ever see thy face again ! ” she cried, despair- 
ingly. 

But the longing to hear more, to learn exactly what 
had been his fate, was stronger than her anguish, and 


268 


NO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


as early the next morning as she could leave the house 
without exciting suspicion, she was in her old seat in 
the wood. To her intense relief, she had not been 
there more than a few moments, when she saw Pepin 
coming down the avenue. This time he came directly 
toward her and took off his cap. 

“M. Renau left for Nismes this morning, madame, 
to be gone all day, and the men are making merry over 
some home-brewed ale. We may speak safely for a 
few moments.” 

Eglantine had risen trembling at his approach. 

“ Have you brought me further tidings ? ” she 
faltered. 

Pepin took a ring from his cap, and placed it in her 
hand. 

‘‘M. Chevalier dares not write more, madame. This 
is his token, that you may ask me what you like.” 

The pledge had been her mother’s dying gift to 
Godfrey Chevalier, and had been handed down to his 
son. As her fingers closed over it. Eglantine’s heart 
told her Rene must have been as sure of this man’s 
fidelity as of his own soul, to have trusted him with 
it. She no longer feared to utter the question hover- 
ing on her lips. 

“ Is my husband still living ? ” 

Pepin’s eyes fell. 

“ God only knows that, dear lady. M. Chevalier 
would not feed you with false hopes.” 

‘^But he has no positive assurance of his death ?” 

“ He can be sure of nothing, except that M. La 
Roche has not again faltered. The doctor is certain 
his enemies would have published it far and wide if 
they had been able a second time to move him.” 

“Then he did withdraw his abjuration ?” 

“ Publicly, madame, in the great cathedral at Nismes, 


OUT OF THE depths:' 


269 

I was myself a spectator, and saw him struck down 
and dragged back to prison, but not before he had 
uttered words which have gone ringing throughout 
Languedoc. Is there a timid heart about to forsake 
the truth, a backslider who fears to return ? — it is only 
necessary to repeat what M. La Roche said of the 
peace of conscience that is sweeter than life or liberty, 
and the weak grow strong, and the faint-hearted bold.” 

Pepin stopped suddenly, for his listener had sunk 
down upon the bench and covered her face with her 
hands. 

“ And all these weeks I have been suffered to believe 
him dead— goaded to the act by my own words — to 
think his name was .a reproach and a snare among his 
people. Cruel, cruel ! ” she moaned. And then she 
looked up once more, and fixed her mournful eyes 
upon the messenger. It was my just punishment. 
Yes, I know Rene wrote to me, and M. Renau inter- 
cepted the letters; but it was God who saw I did not 
deserve to know any better. It was not anything I 
said that made him go back and withdraw his recanta- 
tion. Who was it that saved him ? Was it Rene ?” 

Pepin cast a hurried glance about him, and drop- 
ping on his knee, pressed his lips to the hem of her 
dress. 

“Madame, I have something to tell you, if you can 
bear to hear it. It is written of the Lord our God : ‘A 
bruised reed will He not break.’ ” 

She interrupted him with an impatient gesture. 

“ I can bear anything after what I have believed for 
the last six weeks. The moments are passing, Pepin.” 

“ I saw M. La Roche the night he left the chateau. 
Nay,” as she turned suddenly deadly white, “control 
yourself, dear lady, or you will never be able to hear 
me through. I had gone up into the hills to seek a 


270 


BO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


hiding-place for my wife and little ones. It was no 
longer safe for them at Lodeve, and I had promised 
to stop overnight with M. Chevalier, to let him know 
what success I had met with. As I rode down the hill, 
I saw Mistress Agnes gathering cresses at the lake 
yonder. I thought it was late for her to be out alone, 
for the twilight was falling, so I left my horse by the 
road, and went down to carry her basket for her. She 
had just put in the last bit of green, and was handing 
it to me, when we heard some one running hard and 
fast down the terrace, and the next moment a gentle- 
man broke the brushwood, and pulling off his coat and 
doublet, would have leaped into the water, when he 
saw Mistress Agnes looking at him.” 

Pepin paused, and looked uneasily at his auditor. 
Eglantine had hidden her face once more in her 
hands, but she made him a hurried signal to pro- 
ceed, and he obeyed. 

“ She looked like an angel, madame, standing there 
in the dim light, with her white dress and golden 
hair, and the gentleman — I did not know then who he 
was — stared at her as if she had indeed been a vision 
from another world. The moment saved his life. 
The next instant she had laid her hand on his arm. 

What were you going to do, M. Henri ? ’ I heard her 
ask him, and at that a great trembling fell on him. 
He turned away and leaned against a tree. ‘ Do not 
ask me,’ he said to her. ‘ I am mad with trouble ; 
my punishment is greater than I can bear.’ I had no 
right to listen, madame, but I could not go and leave 
the young lady there alone, and I had a feeling I 
might be needed presently. She seemed to under- 
stand everything at once ; she is as grave as a woman, 
the doctor’s young sister. ‘You have signed the re- 
cantation,’ I heard her say to him once more, and 


^^OUT OF THE depths: 


271 


when he groaned, and shrank away from her, she 
turned very pale, but kept her hand upon his shoulder. 
‘ Oh, I am so sorry, so very sorry,’ she said, and then 
she took his hand and raised it to her lips. ‘ You did 
not do it until you were sorely tempted, I am sure of 
that. Was it not to save my cousin Eglantine and 
your little daughter ? ’ And at that he burst into 
tears, such tears as I hope never to see a strong man 
shed again. And when I could see through the blur 
that rose to my own eyes, he was lying on the ground, 
and she was on her knees beside him.” 

An uncontrollable sob broke from Eglantine. Pepin 
paused at once and looked anxiously at her. 

“ Madame is not strong enough to hear more,” he 
said pityingly. 

“ I deserve all I suffer,” was the choked answer. 
“ Go on ; I would hear the rest now, though M. Re- 
nau stood at my side.” 

“ When he grew quiet, he told her that his wife had 
rebuked him for his weakness, and refused to accept 
the safety he had purchased for her with his dishonor, 
and that he would not save himself alone, and he 
could not live here to see her suffer, and know that 
his fall was a stumbling-block to his people and a 
boast among his enemies. ‘ I had hoped, in another 
land, to begin a humbler and a better life, but that is 
all over now,’ he said to her ; ‘ I had given God the 
second place in my heart, and He has punished me.’ 

“ ‘Would you decide differently, if it was to be done 
over again ? ’ she asked him, and he lifted his head 
and looked at her. 

“‘I would suffer a hundred deaths before I would 
let go my hold on God’s truth again,’ he answered ; 
‘ I begin to see, Agnes, it was worth more than all else 
in the world ; but it is too late to talk of that now.’ 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


2^2 

‘ It is not too late for God to forgive, nor for you 
to go back to Nismes.’ She said it quietly, madame, 
as though it were the only thing to be done. I trem- 
bled as I heard her ; I knew better than she the fiery 
path she was pointing out, and so did M. La Roche. 
But he started up as though he had heard the voice 
of an angel. She was right, he said ; he would go 
back to Nismes and withdraw his recantation — he 
wondered he had not thought of it before. And 
there was no time to lose, for M. Renau must not 
suspect his purpose. And then I saw my time had 
come, and I went and knelt at his feet. He looked 
thunderstruck for a moment, for until then he had 
thought himself alone with Mistress Agnes, but I 
think something in my face told him he need not 
fear, and when I said my horse was at the roadside, 
and would he use it for the truth’s sake, he thanked 
me and said I was God’s messenger, and it was a 
token for good. Mistress Agnes would have run to 
fetch her brother, but on that point he was firm. He 
even made her promise that she would not mention 
having seen him, until she had heard from Nismes 
that he had accomplished his purpose. It would be 
better for the doctor and his mother to be able to 
say they had neither seen nor heard of him when 
search was made ; no one would think of asking her. 
He was resolved now, come what might, not to adhere 
to his recantation, but he wanted, if possible, to with- 
draw it publicly, and undo something of the harm he 
had done. And then he made her put her arms about 
his neck, and promise to pray for him every day. He 
had learned his own weakness, he said, and could not 
stand unless God would help him. And then I saw 
his lip tremble, madame, as he glanced back at the 
chateau. He had been very angry when he parted 


^^OUT OF THE depths:' 


273 


with his wife, he said, and he had spoken words he 
would give much to recall, but it was impossible to go 
back now. Mistress Agnes must see her, and tell her 
so — tell her that he would love her to his dying day, 
and that she must never reproach herself for what she 
had done. It was better so ; he might never have 
given God the first place in his heart while he 
had her, and he would try to meet her In a better 
world.” 

“Never.” Eglantine started from her seat and con- 
fronted her messenger with a frightened look in her 
eyes. “ Do not say that word again. It is impossible 
for me to go back. Tell M. Chevalier so ; tell him 
that I thank him for his message, but he must not try 
to communicate with me again. There is a gulf fixed 
between us.” 

But Pepin still knelt at her feet. 

“ Do not send the doctor back a message like that, 
madame. He will not rest until he gets you out of 
M. Renau’s keeping. Nay, listen to me one moment. 
I wear the sieur’s livery, but I am here only in your 
service, to watch and wait for the moment when we 
may attempt to rescue you ; the doctor and Jean Bon- 
neau have already devised a scheme ” 

But she would hear no more ; she was white with 
terror. 

“ I forbid it. I will not go if they come for me. 
Tell Rene so. M. Renau would be sure to find out, 
and then he would take my baby from me. There are 
voices in the avenue now. Let me go ! for God’s sake, 
let me go ! ” 

The smooth accents of the old priest, who had taken 
Louis Bertrand’s place, were indeed audible a few rods 
beyond. Pepin let go his hold upon her dress, and 
Eglantine, shaking in every limb, tottered back to the 


274 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


house, only to fall fainting on the floor of her chamber 
as the door closed behind her. 

The next day she was better, and in her usual place 
at the morning service, but to Marie’s surprise de- 
clined to take her airing in the park, “ I am better 
here,” she said, with a glance at the cradle ; but from 
her window she could see Pepin all that day, restlessly 
haunting the bocage. Toward evening he came and 
stood under her balcony, but she coldly bade Marie 
draw the curtains and turned away. She was resolved 
to give Rene no opportunity to carry out his plan for 
her escape. She knew better than he the hopelessness 
of the attempt, and she felt certain that the moment 
M. Renau should detect any such plot, he would pun- 
ish her by separating her from her child. The fear 
was enough to steel her heart, though Rene himself 
had stood beneath the window. That night little Ga- 
brielle was taken ill, and for several days her anxiety 
about the child was sufficient to explain Eglantine’s 
reluctance to leave the house, but when at the end of 
a week she still refused to take her walk in the park, 
Marie began to expostulate. 

“The little one is out of danger now, madame, and 
your own health is beginning to suffer.” 

“ I will not leave the child again,” answered the 
mother in a tone that forbade further discussion. She 
thought the old nurse looked at her strangely as she 
turned away, but she was too much absorbed in 
thought to give the matter further consideration. 
Pepin could still be seen at work about the chateau, 
and as long as he haunted the place she knew Rene 
had not given up hope, and just so long she was re- 
solved to keep out of reach of his entreaties. The 
intrepid spirit with which she had once faced danger 
had forsaken her ever since the night when M. Renau 


**OUT OF THE depths: 


275 

had surprised her at the gate of the bocage. The bare 
recollection of that moment was enough to congeal 
her blood with secret terror. The thought of him 
made her shudder, even when alone. 

That evening as she sat crooning to her babe in the 
firelight, she heard the door of her apartment open 
and close. Thinking it was Marie, who had gone out 
for a pitcher of fresh water, she did not look around, 
and before she had time to notice that the step was not 
that of a feeble old woman, a hand was laid on her 
arm, and Rene’s familiar voice said quietly : 

“ It is I, Eglantine. Do not cry out, and do not 
tremble so, but listen to me. I have something to say 
which concerns your safety in this world and the next” 

At the first sound of his voice her soul seemed to 
dissolve with fear, but the last words strengthened her. 

“ It is too late, Rene.” She did not look up from the 
face on her breast. ^‘I cannot give up my baby. If 
you have any pity for me, go away at once. Oh, why 
did you come ? Am I to have your blood too upon 
my soul ?” 

“ I have taken the risk myself, and I alone am re- 
sponsible for the consequences,” was the firm answer. 
‘‘ I will not go until you have heard what I have to say. 
Every arrangement for your escape has been made for 
a week, but you would not come into the park, and 
this was the only way I could speak with you. Do 
you know that the convent is the home M. Renau has 
chosen for you and your babe ?” 

He has intimated as much.” 

“And will you actually resign yourself and Henri’s 
daughter to such a fate without resistance ? Rouse 
yourself. Eglantine. M. Renau has persuaded your 
grandfather that you seek the convent of your own 
will. If those doors once close upon you, you are be- 
yond my help.” 


276 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“ My baby is dying,” was the hopeless answer. It 
will make no difference to her, and I do not care what 
becomes of me when she is gone.” 

The young surgeon uttered a startled cry, and com- 
ing round in front of her, turned the child’s face to 
the light. “ She has lived too much in the shadow of 
your grief,” he said after a slight pause. “ It is not 
necessarily a hopeless case. If I had her where I could 
see her every day, and where we could keep her for 
hours at a time in the sunshine out of doors, we might 
save her even now. Think of her, if you will not of 
yourself.” 

But there was no need for him to add the last en- 
treaty. 

Eglantine had grasped his arm in an agony. “Are 
you telling me the truth, Rene ? I thought God was 
going to let her die to punish me. Do not deceive 
me.” 

His only answer was to look up into her face, but 
that look was so full of loving reproach that she burst 
into tears. 

“ I do not wonder that you distrust me, if you can 
think such things of God,” he said gently. 

“I do not distrust you,” she answered brokenly. “I 
would I could trust God as well. Tell me what to do 
to save my baby. I do not care what happens to me, 
but I will dare anything for her.” 

“ All you have to do is to be calm and do exactly as 
I bid you. Mr. Renau is in Nismes, and will not be 
back until to-morrow evening. You are permitted 
every day to walk in the park, unwatched, only with- 
out your baby ; is it not so ? ” 

She assented silently. 

“ Suppose, when you go out to-morrow, you knew 
that the little one was safely dov/n the road, in Jean’s 


“Oi/r OP THE DPPTHSr 

arms, and I was waiting for you just outside the gate, 
would you be afraid to come out to me ? ” 

Rene ! ” But the joyous cry changed the next 
moment to an accent of despair. “ It could never be 
done without discovery, and then they would be cer- 
tain to take her from me. Marie is afraid to help me.” 

“ Not now. Marie’s son has resolved to leave 
France, but he will not go without his old mother. 
Marie is as anxious to leave the chateau as you, only 
she will not go unless her mistress and the babe she 
loves goes too. You must be strong for her. Eglan- 
tine, as well as for yourself. You know the basket of 
soiled linen that goes down to the hamlet every week. 
It is Pepin who carries it. Pack it to-morrow with 
such things as you and your child most need, and just 
before you take your airing give the little one the 
sleeping draught I have placed in Marie’s hands, lay 
her in, and fasten the cover securely down. Marie 
will give the basket to Pepin, and Pepin, instead of 
going down to the village, will turn up the hill to the 
place where Jean and I will wait with the covered 
wagon. As soon as you see the basket safely out of 
the gate, you can come out for your walk. You will 
not be missed for at least an hour, and by that time 
Marie will have joined her son, and we will be far on 
our way up the mountain. It is only a shepherd’s hut 
I am taking you to. Eglantine, where my mother and 
Agnes do their own work, and we have to content 
ourselves with the simplest fare, but at least you will 
be free, and surrounded by those who love you.” 

“ It is far better than I deserve,” she answered 
through her tears. “ I can scarcely believe I am to en- 
ter it now. Suppose they should make Pepin open 
the basket ? ” 

“ They have never done so yet. There is risk, of 


2y8 ^OlV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


course, but we must take some. Put your babe in the 
basket with a prayer, and I believe you will receive her 
safe again.” 

“I cannot pray,” she answered, turning away her 
face. 

But he took no notice of the interruption. “ There 
will be others praying, too — my mother, and Agnes, 
and those of Henri’s people who are hiding with us in 
the hills. We are all brothers and sisters now. Eglan- 
tine, and share each other’s joys and sorrows. All 
these weeks you have thought yourself forsaken, you 
have been remembered every night in our evening 
service, when we pray together for strength to be 
given to Henri, if still alive, to endure to the end.” 

It was his first reference to her husband, and he half 
repented it when he saw how it unnerved her. But 
she had learned stern lessons in self-control since he 
had last seen her, and recovered herself instantly, in 
answer to his earnest response. 

“ I do not deserve such goodness. It breaks my 
heart,” she faltered. “What about Pepin, Rene? I 
would not like him to suffer for his service to me.” 

One of his rare smiles illuminated Rene Chevalier’s 
face. The strength and beauty he had always known 
lay dormant in her nature, was waking up at last. 

“ Pepin goes with us,” he answered gently. “ He has 
only been here for your sake. Eglantine, doing what 
neither Jean nor I could do because we were too well 
known. Have you never guessed his identity, my 
sister? Do you remember the weaver in La Rochelle, 
whose wife and children I found on the edge of starva- 
tion?” 

The color rushed to her face as she comprehended 
the truth. 

“ The people whom I reproached you for going to, 


OUT OF THE depths: 


m 


when you could not come to me ? Oh, Rene ! this is 
too much. To have your goodness returned to me.” 

“It has been a great joy to them,” he answered 
quietly. “ Aimee remembers you vividly, and was as 
eager for her husband to assist in your rescue as he 
was himself. They are living in a cave near us, where 
we too have to take shelter when the pursuit is close. 
You will have an opportunity to thank her yourself. 
Eglantine, if all goes well to-morrow, as please God it 
shall.” 

He had risen to his feet, and she knew the moment 
had come to part once more. 

“How are you going to get out, Rene? You have 
not told me how you managed to get here,” she said, 
beginning to tremble once more. 

“ Pepin and Marie helped me. Do not worry. Eglan- 
tine. There are no soldiers in the chateau just now, 
and the servants are rather the worse for wine.” He 
pressed her hand to his lips. “Adieu until to-morrow. 
Be of good courage, my sister, and put your trust in 
the Lord. If He be for us, who can be against us ? ” 

She had told him she dared not pray, but as the 
door closed after him, the cry rose instinctively to her 
lips : 

“ Oh, God, keep him ! ” 

When Marie stole up a few moments later to whisper 
joyfully that she had seen M. Chevalier beyond the 
gates. Eglantine felt that she had been answered. 
There was little sleep for her that night, and early the 
next, morning she was up and dressed. Something of 
her old courage shone in her eyes, as she helped Marie 
pack the basket, and arra}^ the little one for her 
journey. 

“ Madame has a touch of color in her cheeks this 
morning. She must draw her hood close or the 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


2B0 

chateau will see the truth in her face,” the old nurse 
whispered warningly, as her mistress went down to 
matins, for Eglantine dared not excite attention by 
absenting herself on this last morning. But the house- 
hold had grown too much accustomed to the quiet 
coming and going of the black-robed figure to scrutin- 
ize madame very closely. Pepin was in the corridor 
as Eglantine passed back to her apartments. 

“All is ready, dear lady. Fear not,” he whispered, 
as he went by her, and his smile was even more reas- 
suring than his words. 

The hardest moment came when she had to lay the 
sleeping infant in its strange cradle, and let it pass out 
of her keeping. But the remembrance of what Rene 
had said of the hearts praying for. them up in the hills, 
and the consciousness that it was her child’s one chance 
of life, strengthened the mother’s heart. 

“ I am not worthy, but, O Christ, have mercy ! ” 
she prayed, as she laid a last kiss on the soft cheek, 
and closed the basket with her own hands. On her 
knees beside the empty cradle, she heard Marie care- 
fully descend the stairs with her precious burden and 
Pepin’s cheery voice answer at the door : “ All right, 
old mother ; Pll take it down at once ; don’t worry.” 
There was a moment or two of fearful suspense, until 
she saw him emerge from the court and strike into 
the park. He carried the basket carelessly on his 
shoulder, and carolled a gay hunting-song as he went. 
One of the footmen stopped him and glanced up at 
the basket. Eglantine almost fainted with terror, but 
Pepin answered lightly and hurried on his way, and 
the lackey strolled back to the house with his hands 
in his pockets. Five minutes later, and a white ker- 
chief, waved from a tree beyond the gate, told her that 
her darling was safe. From that moment she ceased 


OUT OF THE DEPTHSr 


281 


to tremble ; fear had slipped from her heart like a 
loosened cloak from her shoulders. Whatever hap- 
pened now, her baby was safe. Rene and his mother 
would be good to her, though her own mother never 
held her again in her arms. There was no time to 
lose. She had already arrayed herself for her jour- 
ney, and taking a loving farewell of her faithful old 
nurse, who was to leave a little later, crept down into 
the park. The chaplain met her at the head of the 
avenue and detained her for a few moments. The 
quiet shining of her eyes perplexed him a little, but 
her manner excited no suspicion, and after one or 
two casual remarks he let her pass on. Eglantine 
glanced back once to make sure that she was not fol- 
lowed, and sped toward the gate. It was usually kept 
fastened, but Pepin, as one of the gardeners, had a 
key, and had left it unlocked. It yielded at once to 
her touch ; another moment and a tall figure stepped 
out from the shadow of a tree and caught her in its 
arms. 

“ There is no time to lose ; you must let me carry 
you. Eglantine,” whispered Rene, and she was borne 
rapidly up the hill. A covered wagon stood in a 
shady grove near the road. Jean, dressed like a 
farmer, held the reins, but there was no time for 
greetings. Rene laid his foster-sister down beside 
her babe in the pile of hay that covered the floor of 
the vehicle and sprang up beside Jean. 

“ Cover yourself as much with the straw as possi- 
ble,” he said over his shoulder. The driver had al- 
ready given the whip to the horses, and they were 
flying along the road like the wind. 

Eglantine obeyed, scarcely able to believe it was 
not all a happy dream. 

“ Where is Pepin ? ” she asked presently 


282 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


He has gone on ahead, to give us warning, if there 
is danger of our meeting any one upon the road. Do 
not be frightened. Eglantine. There is more than one 
hiding-place in which we can take refuge, if necessary, 
and Jean and I can carry you if we are forced to leave 
the wagon.” 

“ I am afraid of nothing now,” she answered simply, 
and after that she asked no more questions. 

The ride was long, and grew rougher as they went, 
but Gabrielle slept on peacefully, and her young 
mother would not listen to the proposition, made 
once or twice, to stop, and give her rest. 

I rest better as we go,” she answered, and Jean 
urged his horses forward. 

It was late in the afternoon when they halted on the 
edge of a wild, lonely ravine. Eglantine could only 
see a mountain torrent foaming through rent walls of 
rock, as she lifted her head, but Rene had leaped to 
the ground, and was standing at the foot of the wagon. 

“Give me the baby,” he said, and she thought there 
was a quiver of triumph in his voice. She obeyed 
silently. There was no strength left in her but to 
submit passively. He wrapped the little one in his 
cloak and disappeared. For five minutes she lay wait- 
ing. No sound broke the solemn mountain silence but 
the roar of the falling water, and the murmur of Jean’s 
praise to his jaded horses. Then Rene was back again. 

“ There ! it is done. Eglantine. I could not give 
any one else the pleasure of putting the babe in my 
mother’s arms. Now you must close your eyes, and 
not open them until I bid you. I must carry you the 
rest of the way.” 

“ But I do not see any way, Rene.” 

“ I do,” he answered, quietly. “ Trust me, my sister, 
and give yourself no care,” 


our OF THE depths: 


283 


Did the thought of a higher love come to her, as 
she shut her eyes, and held out her hands ? Rene 
thought he heard a sob, as he made his way carefully 
down the steep ascent, and along the narrow pathway 
of rock veiled by the waterfall, but he had enough to 
do to look to his footing, and took no notice. Eglan- 
tine shuddered afterward when she saw the way by 
which she had come, but at the moment she had only 
a blessed sense of security and the utter absence of 
any care. A minute more, and she was laid gently 
down on a soft bed of heather. 

“ Open your eyes now,” whispered Rene. 

She looked up, to see her aunt’s face. 

“ God has been good to you — and to us,” Monique 
Chevalier said tenderly, and Eglantine hid her face 
and wept. 

It was not long before little Gabrielle began to show 
the benefit of the change. The infusion of a hardier 
life — for Lucille Bonneau at once took her to nurse 
with her own sturdy babe — added to Rene’s watchful 
care, soon told upon the sensitive frame. With speech- 
less gratitude Eglantine saw the wasted limbs grow 
round and dimpled, and watched a shell-like color 
ooen on the cheek, which had lately been so thin and 
wan. Her baby would not die, after all. Yet the as- 
surance did not fill her heart as full as she had once 
believed that it would. Her need had deepened. Lit- 
tle Gabrielle’s hand could no longer minister the balm 
for her bruised heart. One day, Rene found her weep- 
ing over the little Testament he had given back to her. 
He sat'down at once beside her. Little Gabrielle was 
laughing and cooing on a sheepskin at their feet. 

“ Eglantine, you do not doubt His willingness to 
forgive ? He knows your frame ; He remembers how 
sorely you were tempted,” 


284 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


“ It is not that,” she Interrupted him, while the tears 
flowed faster. “ Not that only, Rene. What hurts me 
most is the selfish, sinful years that lie behind, when I 
did not think of Him at all. I know now what Henri 
meant by saying that his defense of the faith was a 
mockery. But it is more true of me, than it was of 
him.*’ 

“ If you have learned that without Him you can do 
nothing, you are prepared, like Henri, to go up higher, 
and discover, that through Him you ‘ can do all things.’ 
Your child no longer fills your heart, Eglantine.” 

“ No,” she answered, still through tears. “ It is 
strange, Rene, but I do not think, even if Henri were 
given back to me, it would satisfy my heart — unless 
God forgave me too.” 

“ Then open the door, and let the Master in,” he 
said, very softly. “ Your want of Him is but the feeble 
echo of the deep outgoing of His heart to you.” And 
he went away, and left her. 

When they next met, he needed no words to tell him 
that another life had begun. 

“ He has made all things new,” she whispered that 
night, when they stood together for a moment under 
the star-strewn sky. “ And He has put a new song in 
my mouth : ‘ my sins and my iniquities will He re- 
member no more.’ The joy of that thought will never 
fail me, come what may. Already I seem nearer to 
Henri than in the days when we cared only for each 
other, and I can rejoice in my little daughter, as I dared 
not when she stood between me and God. In giving 
up everything to Him, I seem to have had everything 
given back to me afresh.” 

“That is God’s way, my sister. ‘Delight thyself 
also in Him, and He will give thee the desires of thy 
he^rt,’ ” 


OVT OF THE DEPTHS," 


'28^ 

Something in his voice told her he was speaking to 
himself, even more than to her. She looked up wist- 
fully into his face. Too well she knew what had 
drawn those deep lines of sorrow upon his brow in the 
last few weeks — lines, which even the joy of this mo- 
ment could not efface. 

“ I have been a great trouble to you, Rene,” she 
said, remorsefully. “ But I would have found God’s 
love harder to understand, if it had not been for yours.” 
And Rene’s cup overflowed. 

“ We have both cried to Him out of the depths,” he 
answered huskily. And then they were silent, think- 
ing of the Master, and in the hush they could hear 
Agnes, in the hut behind them, singing to Henri’s 
daughter. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE COMMUNION IN THE GLEN. 

T he next day, Eglantine brought a casket and put 
it in her foster-brother’s hand. 

“ Do you think you could dispose of these, Rene ? 
You and Jean will not always be able to find game, 
and we ought to make some provision for the winter.” 

The first frosts had already fallen, and she had seen 
his anxious glance that morning at their one barrel of 
meal. 

Rene’s hand trembled as he recognized the set of 
pearls which had been Henri’s wedding-gift. 

“You ought not to part with these. Eglantine. They 
were his mother’s ; they ought to be kept for his 
daughter.” 

“ They would be M. Renau’s, if it were not for you. 
Do not refuse me, Rene. Am I not one with you, and 
have you not given me something beyond price?” 

He took a bracelet from the box, and gave the rest 
back to her. 

“ You shall have your wish. Eglantine. Pepin goes 
down to Nismes to-morrow. He shall take the brace- 
let to a jeweller, a friend of his, who purchased some 
trinkets of my mother’s a few weeks ago. Whatever 
he gets for it, shall be spent in buying bread for our- 
selves and our friends.” 

“ And when there is need of more, you must not 
pain me by refusing to take the rest,” she said earn- 
estly. “But where will you get the corn, Rene? Who 
will sell it to you ? ” 

(286) 


THE COMMUNION IN THE GLEN: 287 

“There is a miller half-way down the mountain, 
who will let us have all we want. No, he is not one of 
us,” answering her inquiring glance, “ but he is grate- 
ful for what I did for his sick wife last year, and he 
does not sympathize in the severity of the means used 
to our people. I have only to slip the money under 
his mill-door one night, and we will find the meal in 
the cave near his house, the next.” 

She looked up wistfully into his face. 

“ Rene, how long is this going to last? We cannot 
live this way forever.” 

“I know it,” he answered, sorrowfully. “Yet I see 
no alternative but that we must spend the winter here. 
M. Renau has vented his fury at your escape by re- 
doubling the persecutions. It is a rough life for you. 
Eglantine, but you are safer- than you would be in 
your grandfather’s house in Nismes, as I told him last 
week. He is relieved to know that you are no longer 
in M. Renau’s power, but he is miserable at the thought 
of your privations.” 

“And I cannot make him understand that a crust, 
with the truth, is sweeter than a cake without,” she 
said, smiling through tender tears. “Rene, I am hap- 
pier here than I could be anywhere else in the world — 
unless I could be with Henri in his prison. I cannot 
believe he is dead. I do not think I would feel moved 
to intercede for him as I do, if he had no need of my 
prayers ; and oh ! I do so long to let him know that I 
too have found God, and that I am praying for him 
night and day. It might make it easier for him to en- 
dure.” 

“ Perhaps God sees it is best he should look to Him 
only for strength. Do not forget. Eglantine, that 
prison-walls cannot shut out Him, whose presence is 
‘fullness of joy,’ either here or there ! ” 


288 


HOJV THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


“ I see you do not share my conviction,” she said, 
wiping away her tears. “ It is a part of my discipline 
not to know, Rene, and I will try to bear it bravely. 
My aunt says you have decided to leave the hut, and 
take refuge with the Bonneaus and Pepin and his 
family in the cave.” 

“ Yes ; it is a gloomy dwelling-place, my sister, but 
it is safer, and offers greater protection from the 
weather. You have lifted a great burden from my 
heart,” he added, taking her hand. “ What with the 
milk of our goats, and the game Jean and I will be 
able to find, the meal Pepin will buy with your pearls 
will certainly keep us above actual want. We begin 
to-day to lay in a store of driftwood in the cave, and 
if our enemies do not discover the secret of our hid- 
ing-place, we ought to pass the winter without suf- 
fering.” 

“And in the joy that no man can take from us,” she 
added fervently. 

“And from that hour she arose and ministered unto 
them.” Rene could think of nothing but the beauti- 
ful Scripture phrase, as he watched the healed soul 
lift the burdens, share the cares, and recall the sun- 
shine for those about her. The strained look passed 
from his mother’s face ; Agnes’ soft laugh was heard 
once more ; Jean cast off the moodiness that had be- 
gun to creep over him ; Pepin consulted her about his 
disguises, and soon began to rely on her nimble fin- 
gers and quick wit to aid him in fresh devices ; Basil, 
chained to his pallet by rheumatism, forgot his pain 
when she sang ; the young mothers caught her spirit 
of cheerful endurance, and the children were happy to 
play at her feet. 

“ She is the sunshine of our cavern, yet it never 
seems to occur to her,” Rene said one night to his 


THE COMMUNION IN THE GLEN. 


289 

mother, as he sat with little Gabrielle on his knee and 
watched Eglantine, by the light of the peat-fire, make 
merry with his sister over a worn garment they were 
mending. 

“ I was a wonder unto many, but Thou wert my 
strong refuge,” Madame Chevalier repeated softly. 

Eglantine looked up from her work ; she had caught 
the look, though the words had been too softly spoken 
for her ear. “ Thou hast put gladness in my heart 
more than in the time that their corn and their wine 
increased,” she said with a smile. Before Rene could 
answer, a whistle, clear and shrill as that of an eagle 
on the wing, came from without. 

“That is Fulcrand Rey’s signal,” exclaimed the 
young surgeon, starting joyfully to his feet, and put- 
ting the babe into his mother’s arms, went out. 

Eglantine had not seen the young pastor since he 
had come to the chateau to baptize her child, and re- 
membering all that had come between, she held back 
a little sadly, as the others pressed forward to greet 
him. But the ministers glance at once sought her 
out. 

“ Unto whom much is forgiven, the same also loveth 
much,” he whispered, as he pressed her hand, and as 
her eyes filled with tears, he looked around the group 
with a bright smile. 

“ I have good news for you all. Pastor Brousson 
has once more ventured back to preach the Word to 
our persecuted flock, and will meet us to-morrow 
evening in the old place — to speak of the love anc^ 
favor of our God, and partake with us of the emblems 
of our Lord’s dying love. You have longed for this, 
Rene tells me,” he added, turning once more to Eg- 
lantine. “ He says you will leave your babe for a few 
hours tp meet the King in His banqueting-house.” 


290 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


** I have hungered and thirsted for it,” she said sim- 
ply. “ My babe will be safe with Antoine and Pepin’s 
wife, who is not able just now to travel.” 

“Then I will give you a token.” 

He drew from his breast a small square of block 
tin, and showed her on one side the rough device 
of a shepherd carrying a lamb, and on the other the 
inscription, “Fear not, little flock, for it is your Fa- 
ther’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” 

“ May it be to you an emblem of the white stone 
and the new name which shall be known only to your 
Lord and yourself,” he said solemnly, as he placed it 
in her hand. 

Agnes had crept to her mother’s side and whispered 
in her ear. Monique Chevalier glanced at her son. 
Rene hesitated only a second. Then he took his sister’s 
hand and led her up to Fulcrand Rey. 

“ Agnes has never made a public profession of our 
faith,” he said quietly. “ She is eager to do so now, 
and kneel with us at the Lord’s table. She is over 
the prescribed age, and I think fully understands the 
solemnity of the engagement.” 

“ I am sure of it.” Fulcrand Rey held out his hand. 
Agnes, with a face fair and still as a star, laid hers 
within it. 

“ I give you joy, my sister,” said the young minister 
solemnly. “ In the world you may have tribulation, 
but in Him you shall have peace. Are you able to 
hold fast by Him, even in these stormy times ? ” 

“ I will try,” she answered in a low voice. “ Has 
He not promised to help me if I ask ? ” 

A deep, soft light was in the minister’s eyes. “ He 
has indeed, Agnes. You could not set your feet upon 
a firmer rock. Though the earth be removed, and the 
mountains be carried into the midst of the sea, the 


THE COMMUNION IN THE GLEN, 


291 


soul that has put its trust in Him cannot be shaken. 
Rene,” glancing past her to his friend, “ have you 
placed your treasure unreservedly in the Master’s 
hands ? ” 

I have nothing that is not His,” was the firm an- 
swer. 

“ Amen ! ” said Fulcrand Rey. 

The mother had not spoken, but the light in her 
face was as sweet as unspoken prayer, as she helped 
Eglantine pour out into a trencher the evening meal 
of potage. The pastor sat down with them, but as 
soon as the supper was ended, rose to take his leave. 

I have promised to spread the tidings of the preche 
as far as possible through the hills,” he said ; “I must 
resume my journey without delay.” 

Rene rose too, and threw his cloak over his shoul- 
ders. 

“ I go with you,” he said quietly, and they went out 
together. 

The next night proved cold and bleak, with a driz- 
zly rain falling. Every care had been taken to keep 
the coming service secret from the authorities, but 
there was always danger of a surprise, and the refu- 
gees hailed the inclemency of the weather as a pledge 
of greater security. The place appointed for the gath- 
ering was a ravine on the edge of the hills, several 
miles nearer Nismes than the Chevaliers’ hiding-place, 
and to reach it by the appointed hour, they were 
obliged to start as soon as twilight fell. Pepin was to 
be left behind to take care of his wife and children 
and old Antoine. Jean Bonneau led the way, his brave 
little wife tripping at his side, and his baby snug and 
warm under his cloak. The young parents, anrc’.Dus 
to obtain for their son the rite of baptism, were not to 
be intimidated by the weather. Eglantine, who had 


292 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


no such excuse for exposing her more delicate child to 
the cold, had left little Gabrielle asleep in Aimee’s 
lap, and was able to afford her aunt some assistance, 
while Rene took care of Agnes. A deep, quiet joy 
filled all their hearts. The communion of saints and 
the preached word were the two joys left to them, who 
had given up all else for their religion. They yearned 
for them, as they did not for the homes they had left. 
Like David’s longing for the sanctuary, it had grown 
at last to be a hunger and thirst with which heart and 
flesh failed, and for which they were willing to run 
any risk and suffer any discomfort. 

The rain was falling in torrents, and the wind howl- 
ing in the tops of the cliffs, when they reached the 
glen, but several hundred people, men, women, and 
children, were already assembled. A few lanterns, 
suspended against the sides of the rocks, threw a 
weird light upon the scene. At the upper end of the 
gorge, in earnest conversation with the gray-haired 
elders gathered about them, stood the two pastors. 
Claude Brousson was a tall, fine-looking man, still in 
the prime of life. He wore the rough garb of a peas- 
ant, with only the black skull-cap to indicate his call- 
ing. There were streaks of silver already upon his 
temples, and the deep lines in his brow indicated sor- 
row as well as thought. It was not the first time he 
had defied his sentence of banishment, and tearing 
himself from the arms of wife and children, forsaken 
his home among the quiet Swiss hills, to venture back 
in secret to break the Word to his persecuted flock. 
Near him, on a flat stone, which served as a table, the 
bread and wine were set forth ; a coarse mantle alone 
protected the sacred emblems from the falling rain. 
Through the centre of the glen flowed a mountain- 
torrent ; on either side of this the congregation were 


THE COMMUNION IN THE GLEN. 


293 


assembled, all standing, but partially protected from 
the storm by the overhanging cliffs. The spot was 
one peculiarly adapted for the present purpose . it 
had long been a favorite rendezvous of the Hugue- 
nots, who had thus far succeeded in keeping their 
place of meeting secret from the authorities. The 
only entrance was the narrow defile at the lower end 
of the gorge ; this w’as always well guarded, while 
sentinels on the cliffs above kept watch over the coun- 
try around, and many paths, cut at great labor and 
expense in the sides of the cliffs, and known only to 
the Huguenots, afforded means of escape in case of an 
attack. To-night, however, there was evidently little 
apprehension of danger. A look of glad, solemn ex- 
pectation was visible on every countenance, and as he 
made his way with his friends to a stand near the pul- 
pit, Rene reproached himself for the hesitation with 
which he had consented to have Agnes, for the first 
time, attend one of their secret gatherings for wor- 
ship. The sight of that waiting feast had brought a 
great calm to his soul. No voice rose more glad and 
confident than his in the opening psalm. When it 
was ended the elder pastor led the people in prayer, 
and then Fulcrand Rey, advancing to the side of the 
communion-table, drew a Bible from his breast. Two 
peasants held a cloak above his head, to protect the 
sacred page from the rain ; a third stood near with a 
lantern, while in tones of thrilling music, as if he 
would persuade his hearers to be comforted, the 
ypung minister read the fourteenth chapter of St. 
John’s evangel. Always mighty to succor and to 
cheer, with what added sweetness must the words 
have come home to those who, for the sake of those 
“ many mansions,” were dwelling in dens and caves 
of the earth,” and to win that legacy of peace had let 


294 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


go their hold of earthly treasures. As he closed the 
book, Claude Brousson stepped forward, and waving 
back the attendants who would have sheltered him 
with their cloak, bared his head to the storm. For a 
moment he gazed in speechless emotion upon his 
waiting congregation, and then in a voice that rang 
through the glen like a trumpet-note, announced his 
text : “ He that endureth to the end shall be saved.” 

It is difficult, in estimating the effect of such dis- 
courses, to decide how much of the preacher’s power 
lay in the words he uttered, and how much in the cir- 
cumstances under which he spoke. As the banished 
pastor depicted, in solemn impassioned strains, the 
woes of those who should deny their Master, and the 
blessedness of those who should remain faithful to 
the end, his hearers forgot the fury of the storm and 
the watchfulness of their foes. As he spoke to them 
of the apostles and martyrs, and those who had suf- 
fered for the truth in their own day, and exhorted 
them to witness a good confession and win a like 
crown — women wept, and the faces of men glowed as 
the faces of soldiers glow when they listen to the 
words of their leader in sight of the foe. Eglantine’s 
penitent heart was not the only one that renewed its 
vows in the prayer that followed. 

The moment had now come for Agnes to make her 
public profession. At a sign from Fulcrand Rey, 
Rene put aside the sheltering cloak and prepared to 
lead his sister forward. The elder pastor bent an earn- 
est look upon the slender, white-robed figure. God- 
frey Chevalier had been the friend of his youth, and 
the girl’s likeness to her father was striking. With a 
quiver on his lip, Claude Brousson turned to speak 
to the young minister at his side. The words were 
never uttered. There was a heavy trampling near 


THE COMMUNION IN THE GLEN. 


295 

the mouth of the glen, a shrill scream from the cliffs 
above. 

“ The dragoons ! the dragoons ! Save yourselves 
without delay ! ” 

A discharge of musketry poured in through the 
mouth of the glen. By the flash of the carbines the 
terrified Huguenots could see the dreaded dragoons 
struggling with, and hewing down, the faithful sen- 
tinels, who were endeavoring to stay their passage. 
For a moment they had stood transfixed with fear. 
Now the lights were dashed out, and all was hurry 
and confusion. 

At the first alarm Rene Chevalier had felt his moth- 
er’s hand upon his arm. 

“ Remember your promise ! ” she said, impressively. 

The young man’s answer was to lift his sister in his 
arms and point to the steps in the rock beside them. 

“After you, my mother! ” he said firmly. 

There was no time for remonstrance. Madame Che- 
valier caught Eglantine’s hand and vanished with her 
into the darkness. Rene bounded after them. 

Now, if there was speed in his limbs, and strength in 
his right arm, let them serve him in his hour of need I 
Agnes had not uttered a cry, but lay quiet upon his 
breast, with her arms clasped about his neck. The 
path grew steeper at every step, but he sprang un- 
hesitatingly from ledge to ledge. What was the phys- 
ical peril to that other danger which menaced him ! 
A moment before he had felt ready for any sacrifice, 
but now, at the thought of seeing his gentle sister in 
the grasp of those ruthless men, his soul recoiled. 
Anything but that ! If God would spare her, how 
gladly would he drink the bitter cup at some other 
hour for both I The screams that rose from the glen 
told him that a fearful massacre was going on. Faster 


296 ^orV THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


sped his feet. But suddenly a loud shout of Cheva- 
Her ! Chevalier ! ” told him that he had been recog- 
nized. The price M. Renau had set upon his head 
gave zest to the cry. Instantly a dozen eager feet 
were in pursuit. It was no longer possible to keep to 
the path he had pointed out to his mother and Eglan- 
tine. With the strength that only comes to a man 
face to face with death, he turned aside and bounded 
over the rocks. No less determined than himself, the 
dragoons leaped after him. It was now only a ques- 
tion of speed, in which the training of the mountaineer 
gave him the advantage. He could hear his pursuers 
slipping and scrambling on the wet rocks behind him, 
while he sped on as if on wings. There was a secret 
cavern just beyond the next bend in the rocks. If he 
could gain it without being overtaken they were saved. 
Rene’s heart began to swell with hope. The next mo- 
ment a second discharge of musketry lit up the cliffs 
and showed him, just a few steps in front of him, a 
soldier with a levelled carbine. 

The path was too narrow to admit of a struggle, 
even if he had not been fettered by the burden on his 
breast. With a sinking heart, the Huguenot brother 
glanced backward. The dragoons were already in 
sight, shouting with triumph. To turn back was to 
fly into their clutches. His eye turned to the wall of 
rock above him. Neither twig nor crevice afforded 
him means of scaling it. Beside him, yawned a prec- 
ipice, into which it was certain death to plunge. 

“ My God ! we are lost ! ” he cried, leaning heavily 
against the rock. 

The shouts of the dragoons grew louder and more 
exulting. Another moment, and their rude hands 
would be on his tenderly-sheltered sister. Rene start- 
ed up quivering. In that awful moment, when the 


THE COMMUNION IN THE GLEN. 


297 


beat of his heart and the sight of his eyes seemed 
failing him, the clear sense of right, which had all his 
life been as instinctive to him as both, faltered too. 
Deliberately balancing in his mind, which would be 
the easiest death for his darling, he glanced at the 
levelled carbine, and then into the yawning chasm. 
If she must die, it should be in his arms, with no fierce 
breath upon her cheek. He took a step nearer the 
precipice. Another moment, and he would have leaped 
into the black depths below, but Agnes, conscious of 
some crisis, at the same instant lifted her head. The 
first look of those innocent, wondering eyes brought 
Rene to his senses. Trembling in every limb, he re- 
coiled from the slippery verge, and pressed the young 
head back to its resting-place. 

“ Close your eyes, my darling, and see no more than 
you can help,” he whispered. “ I can do no more for 
you, Agnes. We must pray, as we never prayed be- 
fore.” 

She obeyed him with a low cry, as their pursuers 
reached his side. 

The dragoons could scarcely believe their good 
fortune, when the young physician, of whose hardi- 
hood such wonderful tales had been told, submitted 
passively to his arrest, and with his sister still in his 
arms, suffered himself to be led back to the glen. 
There, he was at once securely bound, and placed with 
the other prisoners under guard, while Agnes, with 
her hands tied behind her, was permitted to remain at 
his side. 

Scarcely ten minutes had passed since the first 
alarm, but the moonlight, which had at last broken 
through the clouds, revealed a ghastly spectacle. 
Many of the Huguenots had been wounded by the 
first discharge ; others had been hewn down by the 


298 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


sabres of the dragoons while endeavoring to effect 
their escape. Some lay writhing in the last agonies. 
Old Marie and her son lay dead in each other’s arms. 
Rene looked anxiously about him for his other friends. 
His mother and Eglantine, he felt sure had succeeded 
in making their escape. Jean was nowhere to be seen, 
but a white, upturned face at his feet made the 
physician start with horror. It was that of Lucille 
Bonneau, cold in death, as was also the babe, whom 
she still clasped close to her breast. They had been 
killed by one bullet. It would be a mercy if Jean too 
had perished. Instinctively Rene uttered his name, 
as he glanced once more about him. A low groan 
from one of his fellow-prisoners answered. He turned 
and met the husband’s glance of tearless misery. For 
a moment they gazed in silence into each other’s eyes, 
then Rene looked down at the slight figure, trembling 
at his side. 

“It is well with them, Jean,” he said hoarsely. “At 
least you wdll not have to see them suffer”; and Jean 
bowed his head. Even in that hour he could acknowl- 
edge that a bitterer cup than his own had been placed 
to the brother’s lips. 

The bugle of the officer in charge now recalled the 
soldiers from their pursuit of the fugitives. The pris- 
oners were placed in the centre of a hollow square, 
and the dreary march to Nismes began. The soldiers, 
who were well mounted and anxious to get their pris- 
oners under lock and key before daylight, showed no 
consideration for the weary feet that toiled on at their 
side, and more than once urged some laggard forward 
with a touch of their whips. 

Rene watched his sister in an agony of suspense, 
fearful every moment that her strength would give 
way, and feeling as if his heart would break if he saw 


THE COMMUNION IN THE GLEN. 


299 

that cruel goad applied to her. But for nearly an 
hour Agnes marched on bravely at his side, uttering 
no complaint, even when the rough flints pierced her 
feet, and always smiling faintly when he spoke to her. 
Then, without so much as a warning cry, she dropped 
upon the road. The nearest rider lifted his lash 
threateningly, but Rene threw himself between them. 

“ Mercy, monsieur ! She is young, and her feet are 
bleeding.’* 

“We cannot stop for that,” returned the man bru- 
tally. 

“Unbind me, and I will carry her the rest of the 
way.” 

“ And give you an opportunity to give us the slip ? 
Hardly, M. le Doctor.” But the captain interfered. 

“ The girl is nearly fainting, and we have no time to 
lose. Loosen his hands, and keep a watch on him, two 
of you. Shoot the girl if he shows the least attempt 
to escape.” 

Even in his bitter grief the brother felt a thrill of 
joy as he lifted the slight form once more in his arms. 
Agnes did not speak, but the tenacity with which she 
clung to him told him that she too apprehended the 
separation that was about to befall them. 

It was near dawn when they reached Nismes. The 
Huguenots were conveyed to the town hall and left in 
charge of a guard until daylight, when the authorities 
were expected to pass sentence. 

The soldiers gathered about the fire at one end of 
the room and made merry, after their cold, wet ride, 
over a hot supper and foaming bumpers of ale, while 
the unhappy Huguenots, huddled together in a farther 
corner, began to hope they were to have a few hours’ 
rest. 

Rene had just closed his weary eyes, in hopes of in- 


300 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


ducing Agnes to do the same, when a heavy hand was 
laid upon his shoulder. 

“ Not quite so fast, doctor ; we have a little score 
to settle with you before you take your nap.” 

“And we mean to see that the little one says her 
prayers to the Blessed Virgin before she sleeps to- 
night,” said a second voice. “ Out with them, you young 
heretic, if you do not want us to teach you.” 

“ See how she shrinks from the holy crucifix and 
clings to him ! ” added a third. “ I say, comrades, 
that’s too pretty a face to spoil with the irons. Let us 
put him to the test instead, and we will convert her 
soon enough.” 

Agnes turned an anguished glance upon her brother. 

“ Rene, if they torture you, I will not be able to bear 
it ; I know I will not be able to bear it.” 

“You must,” he said firmly. “This is no time to 
falter, Agnes ; remember your vows. Remember that 
He loved you and gave Himself for you.” 

“I do remember,” moaned the girl. “ But, oh Rene, 
strengthen me ! I feel ready to faint.” 

For a moment the brother gazed in speechless com- 
passion into the pale, appealing face. Was it possible 
that she could pass unscathed through the threatened 
ordeal — his gentle, loving darling — was her hold upon 
the truth so firm ? He put the doubt firmly by. It 
was not her hold upon the truth, but Christ's hold on 
her, which should give him confidence in this terrible 
hour — not the strength of a girlish heart to endure, 
but the power of an infinite God to fulfil His prom- 
ises. 

“Agnes,” he said solemnly, “ I have prayed for you 
that your faith fail not, and I have hope given me to 
believe that my prayer is answered. Remember the 
word : ‘ When thou passest through the waters, I will 


THE COMMUNION IN THE GLEN. 


301 


be with thee.’ Put your trust in Him who ‘ made heaven 
and earth.’ These men can only hurt my body. If I see 
you falter in your allegiance, it will break my heart.” 

‘‘ Take that for trying to strengthen the girl in her 
obstinacy ! ” interrupted a fierce voice, and a dragoon 
smote him so roughly upon the mouth that the blood 
streamed from his lips. “ You will be glad enough to 
bid her speak before we are through with you.” 

The Huguenot made no reply as his sister was torn 
from his grasp, and a second soldier, seizing him by 
his hair, dragged him roughly across the floor. One 
glance at the coals upon the hearth, and the stocks 
placed in front of them, told him what form of suffer- 
ing awaited him ; but his glance did not falter. The 
real torture of the hour lay in the thought that Agnes 
would be compelled to witness his suffering ; she 
would have more to endure than he. But he must 
be strong for them both. With a silent prayer for 
grace and power to witness to her and their fellow- 
prisoners of their Lord’s sustaining love, he suffered 
his feet to be bared and thrust into the stocks. The 
soldier who had torn Agnes from his embrace stood a 
few paces off, supporting the trembling girl with his 
arm. She had buried her face in her hands, to shut 
out the fearful spectacle. No tears flowed through 
the slender fingers, but the brow quivered with speech- 
less pain. Rene had resolutely closed his lips ; no ex- 
tremity of pain could wring from him one moan that 
would add to the torture that she was suffering. But 
the hand of the soldier in a few moments roughly 
uncovered her eyes. 

Look up, and see what you are doing,” he said. 

Agnes gave one look at her brother’s pale, con- 
vulsed face, and uttered a cry. A crucifix was thrust 
into her hands. 


302 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“ Kiss it, and you are free,” said her tormentor. 

The girl’s hand wavered, and then slowly, slowly 
drew the image to her breast. A moment more and 
it would have touched her lips, when Rene’s voice, 
broken with suffering, cried : 

“ Agnes, remember your vows ! If you falter now, 
you crucify your Lord afresh, and put Him to an 
open shame.” 

It was enough. The words were scarcely off his 
lips, when the idolatrous emblem was hurled into the 
fire, and Agnes, breaking from the grasp of her perse- 
cutors, with one bound reached her brother’s side. 
Neither spoke, save by the silent tightening of their 
arms about each other. The dragoons, who had stood 
transfixed with astonishment for the first moment, 
quickly rallied. 

“ There is more venom in the young viper than 
comes to the surface at first,” growled the owner of 
the crucifix. “ I move we give her a taste of the fire, 
and let her see what she will have to expect in the 
next world, if she does not forswear her heresies.” 

The threat seemed to fall unheeded on the girl’s ear, 
but the brother half started from the floor. 

‘^As you are men, and not fiends, forbear; torture 
me, if you will ; I am a man and can bear it, but spare 
her : she is little more than a child.” 

The eyes of the dragoon glittered savagely. 

“ Oho, master intractable ! Is that the key to your 
heart? Very good. Every Achilles has his weak point, 
and we are fortunate to have discovered yours. I say, 
lads, take the fellow away, and put the girl in his place, 
and we will have an abjuration here in a few mo- 
ments.” 

“Mercy, M. le Capitaine !” interposed the Hugue- 
not hoarsely. “You will only kill her, and draw down 


THE COMMUNION IN THE GLEN. 


303 


upon your heads the vengeance of an offended God. 
I will never renounce my faith. For the sake of your 
own mothers and sisters, do not torture her in vain.” 

“You are an earnest pleader, monsieur ; every word 
you speak convinces me that our plan is a good one.” 

Rene sank back upon the floor and covered his face. 
He scarcely felt the pain with which his blistered feet 
were torn from the stocks. A rough hand was already 
upon Agnes’ shoulder, but the cup he dreaded was not 
to be put to his lips. There was a stir in the court, 
the great doors were thrown open, and the provost, 
followed by a train of monks, entered the hall. With 
a feeling of joy he vrould not once have believed 
possible, the young surgeon heard the order given for 
the instant removal of the women and children to the 
neighboring convent, and of the male prisoners to the 
dungeons of the citadel. 

With a muttered curse the dragoon loosened his 
hold. 

“ You have escaped us this time, young heretic, but 
I shall take care the Intendant hears how to tame your 
brother,” and with that threat he sullenly retired. 

The brother and sister scarcely heard him. They 
had but a few seconds left in which to strengthen each 
other’s hearts for the coming parting. 

“Agnes! even the frail support of my presence is 
now to be taken from you. Remember that no bolts 
and bars can shut out Him who has said : ‘ I will never 
leave you, nor forsake you.’ My sister, for the last 
time, let me hear you promise to stand fast in the faith 
for which our father died, and to witness to the dark- 
ened souls about you the exceeding riches of His 
grace. Remember, the truth you hold is a trust for 
them as well as yourself.” 

She was too much overcome with grief to com- 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


prehend his last words. All she could realize was 
that he desired some last assurance, and she roused 
herself to give the one drop of balm to the great heart 
that only trembled for her. 

“ God helping me, Rene ! As I hope to see you and 
my mother in a better world, I promise ! Do not 
worry about me, my brother. They have broken my 
heart to-night ! I will not suffer long.” 

“ Even so, Lord Jesus, come quickly ! ” 

There was a tremor in the young man’s voice, for he 
saw a monk approaching them. 

The priest laid his hand, not unkindly, on the shrink- 
ing girl. Rene pressed one long kiss upon the speech- 
less lips, and suffered her to be lifted from his breast. 

“ God deal with you as you deal with her ! ” he said 
sternly. “As there is justice in heaven, the mercy you 
mete out to her shall be the measure of your own.” 

The eyes of the priest had been riveted upon his 
face. Now they dilated with a sudden flash, which 
the Huguenot could not interpret. 

“ Heretics have little to do with the mercy of God,” 
was the chilling response, and something in the cold 
metallic voice grated unpleasantly on Rene’s recollec- 
tion. “ I accept your challenge, M. Chevalier. The 
Church is a tender mother. She has nothing to fear, 
if she shows herself tractable.” And without giving 
the brother time to reply, the monk turned, and bear- 
ing the now insensible girl m his arms, glided away. 
The next moment Rene Chev^/iier was himself seized, 
and hurried off to prison. 


CHAPTER XVm. 


A WATCH IN THE NIGHT. 

M LAVAL sat in his library the next evening, 
, gazing absently into a glowing bed of coals. 
The crimson curtains were drawn across the windows, 
the soft light of an alabaster lamp filled the room. 
A pile of unopened letters lay on the table, beside a 
scarcely-tasted meal. The banker’s white head was 
bowed upon his hand. At the sound of a low tap 
upon the door, he looked up, and frowned. 

‘‘ Come in,” he said fretfully, and Madame Chevalier 
entered. 

If one of the marble figures shining out from the 
folds of tapestry had suddenly stepped down from its 
pedestal, the old man could not have looked more 
terror-struck. 

Monique ! This is, to say the least, very imprudent. 
Are you — are you aware that you imperil me as well 
as yourself ? ” 

The widow quietly closed the door. 

“ I have taken care that I should not be recognized. 
You need give yourself no uneasiness,” she answered. 
And then she came close to the hearth, and looked 
into his face with her sad, clear eyes. “ I see that you 
have already heard that my children were among the 
prisoners taken at the pr^che last night. Can you 
give me any tidings ? Where have they been confined, 
what will be their fate ? ” 


(305) 


no IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


30S 

M. Laval sank back into his chair and shaded his 
eyes. 

“ You should know that as well as I, Monique. The 
penalties attached to these secret gatherings are no 
secret. Good heavens ! how could you let a child like 
Agnes run such a risk ? I have not known a moment’s 
peace since I heard that she was taken. Yet I can do 
nothing for her — absolutely nothing ! ” 

There was a frightened protest in the last words. 
The Huguenot mother looked at him in compassion. 
Too weak to espouse the right, too kind to sympathize 
with the wrong — was he not most to be pitied, after 
all? 

“ I did not ask you to involve yourself for us,” she 
said gently. “ I only asked for tidings, monsieur. 
You need not be afraid to tell me what you know. I 
am prepared for the worst,” 

The old man tapped the floor uneasily. 

“I do not understand you, Monique. I never could. 
Anybody would think you had nerves of iron. There 
is not much to tell. The women and children have 
been consigned to the convent of St. Veronique, the 
men to the vaults of the citadel to await their trial. 
Agnes is sick with fright and exposure, but received 
no harm at the hands of the dragoons. Rene, I am 
sorry to say, had the imprudence to aggravate his 
captors at the outset. But that is only what might have 
been expected of him.” 

The mother’s hands were clasped firmly together. 

‘‘You forget that if it had not been for Rene, it is 
Eglantine who would be in the convent,” she said in a 
low voice. 

M. Laval started from his chair and came close to 
his visitor. 

“ I think you might have comprehended my anxiety, 


A WATCH IN THE NIGHT 


307 


and mentioned my granddaughter’s name sooner,” he 
said fretfully. “ Is she well and safe ? I live in con- 
stant terror lest she should be captured by the dra- 
goons. Surely, you did not permit her to attend that 
meeting last night ? ” 

“ I had certainly not the right to deny her the com- 
fort,” was the quiet answer. “ But you may set your 
heart at rest, monsieur. She and her child are both 
safe and well. There is her own word for it.” She 
drew a letter from the pocket of her gown and hand- 
ed it to him. She knew that it contained as earnest 
an appeal for his aid as lay in the power of the warm- 
hearted, impetuous girl to write. In glowing words. 
Eglantine reminded her grandfather that it was Rene, 
who, at the risk of his life, had saved her from a con- 
vent-doom, when even he dared not interfere — Rene, 
who had won her babe back to health — Rene, who had 
led her own soul to the fountains of living water, that 
had filled her heart with a joy, even her happy girl- 
hood did not know. She told him, what he had not 
heard before, that it was Agnes who had saved Henri 
from self-destruction, and saved her heart from break- 
ing beneath its load of remorse. She bade him re- 
member all she owed to Madame Chevalier from her 
earliest infancy, and the promise he had made to her 
mother never to forget that debt. 

M. Laval’s hand trembled violently as he refolded 
the sheet. 

I did not know all this ; Rene did not tell me 
half,” he said nervously. 

“ Rene would never boast of what he had done,” an- 
swered the mother. 

The old banker had begun to pace the room. 

Of course I would have done what I could for you, 
anyway ; you might have known that, Monique. I 


3o8 


HO W THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


promised as much to Godfrey years ago. I am not as 
rich a man as I was then ; these priests are sad leech- 
es ; but I will try what gold can do. Rene has been 
good to my girl. He shall see that I am. not ungrate- 
ful.” 

“ And Agnes ? ” 

Pierre Laval was silent. 

“ Is there no hope there ? ” asked the mother in a 
stricken voice. 

“ None, except submission. You may as well make 
up your mind to that, Monique. Surely, it can matter 
little in what form that sweet child worships God.” 

“ I would rather see her dead than know she had 
denied her father’s faith,” was the low, passionate 
reply. “ But there is one resource still, monsieur — an 
appeal to the priests. I will see them, and intercede 
for my child.” 

“ Impossible ! ” grasping her quickly by the dress as 
she turned ’ to go. “ Are you mad, Monique ? The 
Jesuits have no conscience where heretics are con- 
cerned. You would be seized and dragged before the 
Intendant before you had uttered a dozen words. 
Stay ; there is one man. I wonder’ I did not think of 
him before. Do you remember Father Ambrose ?” 

Can I ever forget him ?” 

“ He is known among his own order as a strict dis- 
ciplinarian, but I notice he takes little part in these 
miserable persecutions. Unless he is a harder man 
than he was six years ago, he may be willing to help 
you. He certainly has the power, for he is the con- 
fessor of the convent.” 

I will go to him at once. Leon di Vincy cannot 
refuse to hear me when I plead for my child. Quick, 
monsieur ; tell me where he is to be found. Who can 
tell what my darling is enduring even now,” 


A WATCH IN THE NIGHT. 


309 


If you will promise to rest satisfied with this at- 
tempt, and will give me a line asking him to come to 
you, I will go for you, Monique. It would never do 
for you to go to the close, and yet you ought to speak 
with him yourself. He has scant liking for me, and 
my presentation of your cause would only injure it.” 

The mother slipped a ring from her finger. 

“ If my old friend has not been altogether absorbed 
in the priest, that will bring him,” she said in a broken 
voice. 

M. Laval’s answer was to ring the bell for his butler, 
a trusty servant, who had been in the house ever since 
Eglantine’s mother was a baby. 

Stand outside the library-door, and admit no one 
till my return,” he ordered ; and as the old man bowed 
and retired : “ Monique, try and take a little rest and 
refreshment in my absence ; there is food and drink 
upon the table.” And with that the door closed after 
him, and a moment later the anxious mother heard his 
quick step on the pavement without. 

In less than half an hour her quick ear caught the 
sound of his entering feet ; he was evidently accom- 
panied by some one. She rose tremblingly and turned 
toward the door. It was opened noiselessly the next 
moment, and M. Laval, with a perturbed countenance^ 
ushered the object of his errand into the room. 

Once more Monique Chevalier and her early friend 
stood face to face. The years so fruitful both of sor- 
row and blessedness to her had wrought little change 
in the cold, clear-cut face of the monk. The eyes had 
sunk deeper in their sockets, the wrinkles were more 
deeply graven, but otherwise life and time had left no 
trace. 

He waited a moment, as if expecting her to address 
him, and then extended the ring. 


BO IV THEY KEPT THE EAlTH. 


310 

“ I am here, madame, in answer to your summons.” 

Something in the harsh voice and cold, glittering 
eye froze the appeal that had trembled upon the 
mother’s lips. She could only extend her hands in 
mute entreaty, while her eyes filled with tears. 

A strange smile illuminated the face of the priest. 
He lifted his arm with a commanding gesture. 

“ Hear me, Monique Chevalier ! It is needless to 
explain or entreat. I fully comprehend the purpose 
for which you have sent for me, and my will is as fixed 
as the course of the stars in heaven. Six years ago 
Providence placed your children in my path. By the 
lifting of a finger 1 could have snatched them from 
the errors in which they had been reared and placed 
them in the bosom of the Church, which is the one 
fountain of light and truth. But I was weak. The 
look in your eyes unmanned me. I weighed the 
thought of their earthly happiness against the hope 
of eternal gain, and permitted you to leave Nismes, 
with them, unmolested. Heaven forgive me, and lay 
not the sin to their door or mine ! From that hour 
the frown of an offended God rested upon my soul. 
The scanty peace I had been able to win by prayers 
and fastings slipped from me. You wonder that I own 
this to you — a heretic ? Wait, madame, and when I 
am done, you will understand my confession. I had 
for some years been confessor of the convent of St. 
Veronique. Among the children under the care of 
the nuns was one who had been snatched as a brand 
from the burning. She could not remember her early 
home, but she was a shy, sensitive little creature, often 
ailing, and the Sisters did not understand her. They 
thought her sullen, but I knew better from the first. 
One day I found her crying at the feet of the great 
Madonna in the chapel ; she wanted her mother, she 


A WATCH IN THE NiGHT. 


311 

said. I contrived to pacify her. She had never been 
afraid of me like the other children ; from that day 
she was my unquestioning slave. The Sisters had 
only to say, ‘ This will please the holy father,’ and she 
was ready to undertake any task. All that I told her 
was received as gospel. Ah, how I gloried in eradi- 
cating the seeds of error and instilling the blessed 
doctrines of our ancient faith. Her nature — I had 
known it from the first — was like crystal : transparent, 
and without stain. Her mind proved to be one of 
rare intelligence. The saintly Fenelon, who is some 
connection of her father’s house, wrote to make in- 
quiries about the child, and delighted at what he 
heard of her unusual promise, would have had her 
removed to the care of the Ladies of Port Royal, but 
my pupil clung to her old preceptor, and the matter 
was not pressed.” 

Is it possible that you speak to me of the unfor- 
tunate daughter of Madame de Bertrand ? ” exclaimed 
Monique Chevalier. 

Father Ambrose regarded her with an inscrutable 
expression. 

“ It can matter nothing to soeur Marguerite, or to 
any one else, what her antecedents were,” he an- 
swered in a hard, repellant voice. “ She has long 
since taken upon herself the full vows of the sister- 
hood, and is as dead to earthly ties as though she 
were on the other side of death. But you interrupt 
my story, madame. The Church had from the first 
designed my pupil for a holy vocation ; she was in 
her novitiate at the time of my misguided kindness 
toward you. It was then — in my endeavor to allay 
the remorse that tormented me — that I conceived the 
idea of atoning for my fault by devoting myself with 
increased ardor to the attainments of my pupil. I 


312 


MlV TiiRY KEPT THE FAITH. 


have succeeded beyond my utmost expectations. 
Transplanted flowers sometimes exhale richer fra- 
grance than the natives of the soil. You are doubtless 
aware that the noble lady, who at this moment sways 
the councils of. France, and fans the zeal of the king, 
was herself a convert from the heresies which now 
she abhors. Madame, my young Huguenot has blos- 
somed into a devotee, an ascetic ; there are no bounds 
to her enthusiasm ; her piety exceeds that of the su- 
perior ; her zeal often puts me to confusion. Ah ! 
you catch the drift of my story at last. That w^oman 
is the guardian, the instructress I have chosen for 
your child. Whatever of eloquence lies in unfalter- 
ing conviction and burning zeal — whatever of power 
sleeps in a holy and blameless life, soeur Marguerite 
will bring to her task ! Ah, Monique Chevalier, in 
spite of the slanders which your blasphemous sect de- 
light to hurl at the institutions of our holy Church — 
a life as blameless as your own, a soul as stainless as 
that of a lily unblown. You have no need to fear per- 
sonal violence. I disdain brute force. My weapons 
are finer and more invincible. Soeur Marguerite al- 
ready watches beside the sick-bed of your child with 
a tenderness that disarms her prejudices, allays her 
fears. When she has wholly won the heart of her 
charge, she will unfold the doctrines of our holy faith, 
with a voice and glance so winning, that your daugh- 
ter will have neither the power nor the inclination to 
resist. Madame, my hour of atonement and restora- 
tion is at hand. In a few weeks, at farthest, I will 
have the gratification of receiving into the Church the 
young soul I so deeply wronged years ago, and my 
lost peace will be re-won.*’ 

Father Ambrose paused, and waited for reply. The 
mother had listened with her hands clasped firmly to- 


A WATCH IN THE NIGHT 


313 

gether. There was a slight flush upon her cheek ; her 
eyes had kindled through their tears. 

“ You will be disappointed,” she said in a low, firm 
voice. “ Leon, you think you have only a girlish will 
with which to contend, but I warn you that over 
against your cunning will stand the prayers of her 
martyred father and the promise of a covenant-keep- 
ing God. There is that in that young soul which 
will confront and baffle you at every turn ; there is 
that in her heart which you would give your life to 
win — the peace that passeth understanding ; there 
will stand by her in every temptation the Lord who 
made heaven and earth. Beware how you fight 
against God ! Beware how you offend one of His 
little ones ! ” 

‘‘That will do, madame ; I am not to be shaken as 
to the righteousness of my cause, nor my hopes of 
success. I will find means to let you know your 
daughter abandons her errors ; perhaps you will then 
talk differently. Meantime, God judge between us ! ” 
Father Ambrose drew his hood over his face, and 
without further word of farewell, strode from the 
room. 

Pierre Laval, who had been uneasily pacing the cor- 
ridor, hurried in. 

“ He swept past me without a word, Monique ; have 
you made any impression on him ? ” 

She told him the result of the interview, and her 
suspicion that the nun, to whose care Agnes had been 
specially consigned, was his own lost grandchild. 

He rejected the idea with considerable agitation. 
“ Poor Aimee’s little one must have perished long ago. 
The fact that M. Fenelon is interested in this young 
creature is not sufficient to warrant such a supposition, 
Monique,” 


314 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


‘‘ Perhaps not,” she said, sighing. “ But the thought 
came to me like an inspiration. I have at least the 
comfort of knowing that Agnes will be treated with 
leniency. Monsieur, I must ask one more favor at 
your hands. It would take the sharpest sting from 
her brother’s sufferings if he could know this. I am 
sure you could get a letter to him, if you would.” 

“ I am not so sure of that,” returned M. Laval ; but 
the next moment he added in a different tone, “Write 
what you like, Monique, so it is not long, and I will do 
what I can.” 

He motioned her to the pen and ink upon the table, 
and took his old seat by the fire while she wrote. 

“You surely do not think of going back to-night?” 
he asked, .when the letter was finished, and she began 
to draw her mantle about her. 

“ Eglantine is anxiously awaiting my return, and we 
are less likely to meet travellers on the road after 
dark.” 

“But you cannot go alone.” 

“ Pepin — one of our friends from the hills — came 
with me. He is waiting at a shop down the street.” 

M. Laval bowed his head upon his hands with a bit- 
ter sigh. 

“It is unbearable — the thought of you and Eglan- 
tine living in a cave, while I am here in my comfort- 
able house,” he moaned. “Surely you might take 
shelter under my roof now, Monique. I would do 
everything in my power to protect you.” 

“ Could you keep the fact a secret from the priests ? ” 
she asked, and as he shook his head with a groan, she 
added gently, “The cave is a hundred times better 
than the convent, monsieur. Do not worry about 
Eglantine. We have never yet lacked bread.” 

“You shall not,” starting promptly to his feet. 


A WATCH IN THE NIGHT 


3^5 


Monique, I have the right to provide for your wants 
after what Rene has done for my girl. There must be 
some place in the hills where I could send provisions 
once a week.” 

She hesitated a moment and then named the miller 
of whom Rene had spoken to Eglantine. 

It is he who lent us the horses for this trip. He 
will see that anything you send him for us reaches us 
safely. But you must be cautious, monsieur. While 
search is being made for Eglantine, your movements 
will be carefully watched. Never attempt to come 
yourself.” 

“ I will remember,” he said bitterly ; but long after 
Monique Chevalier had left him, Pierre Laval sat with 
his head bowed upon his arms. More and more un- 
satisfying were growing those earthly possessions, for 
which he had bartered his hopes of heaven. 

It was on one of the cold nights in December that 
the Huguenots had been interrupted in their service 
in the glen. The new year was a month old, and the 
snowdrops had begun to tremble in the sheltered 
crevices of the rocks when the first tidings broke the 
anxious watch of the hearts in the hills. Then, Eglan- 
tine, unpacking the weekly basket of provisions from her 
grandfather, found a note at the bottom. It contained 
only a few lines. M. Laval had met Father Ambrose 
in the street the day before. He would not open his 
lips about Agnes, but he acknowledged that Rene had 
been removed to Toulouse soon after his arrest and 
would be tried there the coming week. 

“ Then to Toulouse I go down at once,” cried Pepin, 
striking his staff in the rocky floor, and, good as his 
word, he set off the same evening, his brave young 
wife cheerfully consenting to the risk. 

It was a, full week before he returned. Eglantine. 


3i6 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


who had taken the children out to play in the sun- 
shine, was the first to see him and hurry to meet him. 

“ It is as we feared, madame. He has beert sen- 
tenced to the galleys,” said Pepin, and when her first 
burst of tears was over, he added : “ I could not get 
admittance to the court-room, but I contrived to see 
him, when he set out with the other prisoners for 
Marseilles. They were under a close guard, and yoked 
two and two with a wooden collar about their necks. 
M. Chevalier and Jean were together.” 

“ Did he see you — could you tell ? ” asked Eglantine, 
lifting her wet cheek from the baby-head on her 
shoulder. 

“Ay, madame ! Jean looks as if he had gone mad 
with his trouble, and stared at me blankly; but the 
doctor, though he looks years older, has a glance as 
quick and keen as ever. He knew me at once, and 
made me a secret sign to ask whether you were all 
safe in the hills ; when I bowed yes, he smiled. Then 
he glanced down at his fettered hands, and back at 
the mountains, and up at the blue sky above us, and 
if ever I saw daring and resolution in a man’s glance, 
I saw it in his. Madame, the doctor has not resigned 
himself to his fate : he will attempt to escape.” 

“ He can never succeed. He will only increase his 
sufferings by the attempt,” sighed Eglantine ; and 
Monique Chevalier, who had come upon them un- 
noticed, added sadly : 

“ Rene spoke of the life that is to come, and the 
liberty that is beyond the stars.” 

Pepin did not contradict them, but his own convic- 
tion remained unshaken, and three days later, going 
down into Nismes on an errand, he found the city 
ringing with the miraculous escape of two galley- 
slaves, At a little hamlet between Toulouse and Mar- 


A WATCH IN THE NIGHT. 


317 


seilles, by an exercise of almost superhuman strength, 
they ^had succeeded in breaking the wooden yoke 
about their necks, and during the night, while their 
guards were asleep, gained the shelter of the hills. 
The gendarmes were already in hot pursuit ; the In- 
tendant had set a price upon their heads ; the streets 
blazed with placards, giving particular description of 
the fugitives, who were announced to be no other 
than the notorious Huguenots, Chevalier and Bon- 
neau. All loyal subjects were warned, under heavy 
penalties, to afford them neither food nor shelter. 

Pepin’s eyes twinkled as he read, and marked the 
secret exultation of more than one countenance in the 
crowd about him. “ You may offer all the rewards 
you like, M. D’Argoussy. You will get no Cevanol to 
betray the good doctor,” he thought triumphantly, 
and he made haste to finish his business that he might 
carry the glad news back to the hills. As he left the 
city, a coach, entering the gates, rolled rapidly past 
him, and he had a momentary glimpse of M. Renau, 
leaning back in the shadow, wrapped in gloomy 
thought. 

“ He has heard the news, and has hurried down to 
urge on the hounds,” thought the whilom gardener, 
glancing back at the vanishing wheels with a frown 
and a grimace. “Ah ! you are a sharp one, M. Renau, 
but you cannot fight against God.” And whistling a 
cheery air, he strode on. 

The twilight was falling when he reached the foot 
of the mountains, and made his way along the edge of 
the gorge where the Huguenots had held their ill- 
fated service. In the solitude of the hills he was no 
longer afraid to give his real feelings vent, and the 
gay ballad he had been singing quickly changed to 
one of Marot’s stirring psalms. 


3i8 how they kept the faith . 

“ If God be for us, who can be against us ? ” he 
chanted sturdily. 

A low moan, that seemed to come from the very rock 
beneath him, answered. 

The hymn died upon the weaver’s lips ; he checked 
his steps and looked about him. There was no one in 
sight. Once more the low moan seemed to rise from 
the earth beneath him ; this time it was followed by 
words. 

“ For God’s sake, for Christ’s sake, have pity, and 
let us out ! We are buried alive in this rock.” 

It was a woman’s voice, faint with exhaustion ; she 
was evidently immured in some cavity in the rock. 
Anxious as he was to reach the end of his journey, 
Pepin could not turn a deaf ear to such an appeal. 
Guided by the groans, which still continued, he made 
his way to the spot where they seemed loudest. A 
large boulder blocked the entrance of what was ap- 
parently one of the many caverns with which the hills 
abounded. The weaver saw at a glance that a push of 
his strong shoulder would dislodge it, but with in- 
stinctive caution he placed his mouth first to the crev- 
ice in the rock. 

“Tell me who you are and whence you come,” he 
called. “ I must know whom I release.” 

There was a glad outcry from the other side of the 
stone. 

“ It is the voice of Pepin, the weaver. Thank God, 
we are saved ! Marguerite, do you hear ? I will see 
my children again.” 

“Joan Marc, is it thou?” cried Pepin, overcome 
with joy in his turn. “ This will indeed be good news 
for thy poor husband and the weeping little ones. 
But we thought thee captured with the other friends 
at the preche, and long since buried in a convent.” 


A WATCH IN THE NIGHT, 


319 


“ So I was, but God has set me free.” The speaker 
was now evidently weeping. Quick, my friend. I 
have some one with me, and she has fainted. We have 
neither of us tasted food for two days.” 

The boulder was whirling down the side of the prec- 
ipice the next moment, and Pepin had sprung into 
the opening. A touch of his flint upon the rocky wall, 
and the resin candle he drew from his pocket was 
quickly lighted. His friend, a middle-aged farmer’s 
wife, whom he had known since his residence in the 
hills, sat on the ground at a little distance, supporting 
the head of a young woman upon her lap. One 
glance at the pale, deathlike features, and the hope 
that had for a moment leaped up in Pepin’s heart went 
sadly out. The face was that of a girl, at least one- 
and-twenty, and quite unknown to him. The next 
moment, he had thrust a half loaf into Joan’s hand, 
and was himself holding a flask of brandy to the lips 
of the unconscious stranger. The latter was soon 
able to lift her head, and indicate by a quiet gesture 
that she could not drink more. Joan broke off part 
of the bread and gave it to her, and while Pepin 
watched them both with pitying eyes, she gave her 
friend a hurried explanation of the plight in which he 
found them. 

“ We ran away three nights ago. Never mind just 
now how we accomplished it ; it was Marguerite who 
helped me. She does not know anything of the coun- 
try, so I promised to see her to the end of her journey 
before I went to my own home. We planned to travel 
by night and lie in hiding during the day. We got on 
safely enough the first night, only not as fast as we 
had hoped ; Marguerite is not used to walking, and 
her feet were blistered before we had gone two miles. 
We were so anxious, though, to reach the end of our 


520 


ROW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


journey, so afraid of being overtaken and dragged 
back, that we decided to make up our lost time by 
travelling part of the next day. It was very foolish 
of us — we saw that when it was too late ; but I 
thought we were not likely to be seen in the hills. 
We had just passed the mouth of the glen down 
there when a party of dragoons saw us and gave 
chase. I think despair must have given us wings, for 
though they were mounted, we managed not to let 
them overtake us. Suddenly I remembered this cav- 
ern ; my husband showed it to me the very night of 
the preche. I caught hold of Marguerite’s hand and 
dragged her in after me. The soldiers dashed up a 
moment later, but by the time they could dismount 
and find the entrance of the cave, we were hidden in 
the little chamber beyond, and they could not find us. 

“ ‘ They must be in league with the devil, and have 
the art of making themselves invisible,’ I heard one 
of them grumble, after they had groped about in the 
dark without finding anything. ‘ If I ever saw any- 
thing with my two eyes, I saw those women run into 
this hole. They must be here now.’ 

“ ‘ Then roll a stone against the mouth, and keep 
them here until we come this way again,’ the other 
answered with a laugh. ‘We haven’t time to waste 
on them to-day.’ And the next moment we heard the 
great rock settle into its place, and knew that we were 
buried alive. We tried to move the stone when we 
came out, but it was no use. Then we listened for 
some passer-by, but no one came. I am afraid my 
faith would have failed, and I would have thought 
God had forsaken us, if it had not been for Margue- 
rite. She said it was better to die with the truth than 
to live without it, and I felt ashamed that one who had 
just learned the truth, should see that clearer than I, 


A WATCH IN THE NIGHT, 


321 

and I tried to keep up, but it was very hard to be so 
near my little ones and not see them after all.” 

The younger woman had meanwhile risen to her 
feet. 

“ Had we not better resume our journey, Joan ? ” 
she asked. “ I am quite strong enough to walk now.” 

The soft, modulated voice was in marked contrast 
to the rustic drawl of the farmer’s wife. Pepin, who 
had more than once glanced curiously at the stranger 
during Joan’s story, at once recognized the presence 
of gentle birth. But he was at a loss to understand 
what there was in the low tones, soft as the chime of 
silver bells, which made him feel that he had heard 
the voice before. 

“ Has mademoiselle relatives in the hills ? Perhaps 
I can be of some assistance to her in finding them,” 
he said respectfully. 

“ I have no relatives anywhere,” answered the stran- 
ger quietly, and her large, deep eyes turned inquir- 
ingly upon Joan. 

“ Master Pepin is a friend of the Chevaliers. You 
may safely tell him your errand,” said the farmer’s 
wife. 

I would die for the doctor, or any one belonging 
to him,” said Pepin. 

The stranger held out her hands. “ I have a mes- 
sage for Madame Chevalier,” she faltered. “ If you 
can take me to her, you will do us b'oth a great ser=> 
vice.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


IN THE MORNING. 

I T was destined to be a night of surprises. When 
several hours later Pepin led his new friends into 
the cave beyond the waterfall, the first object that met 
his eye was Rene seated beside the fire, with little Ga- 
brielle, as of old, nestling in his breast. Monique Cheva- 
lier, with a face of chastened pleasure, was seated beside 
her son. Eglantine and Aimee, with happy tears on 
their cheeks, were preparing a meal. The reunion had 
evidently just taken place, but without pausing to con- 
gratulate his friend the weaver led the younger of his 
companions up to Madame Chevalier. 

“She has brought you a message from Mistress 
Agnes,” he said in a low voice. 

The mother looked up startled into the dark, pity- 
ing eyes fixed upon her. 

“ Who are you ? Whence do you come ? ” she fal- 
tered. 

The stranger’s answer was to open her hand, and 
show a small square of tin glimmering in her palm. 

“ I promised her — if I could ever make my escape — 
I would come and tell you,” she said gently. “She 
said it would be a comfort to you to know that she 
was at rest, that she had endured to the end, that 
she had been very happy even in the convent.” 

There was a low murmur from the group about her ; 
a fervent “ Thank God ! ” from the man, who had 
started suddenly to his feet ; a burst of tears from 
(322) 


IN THE MORNING. 


323 

Eglantine. Monique Chevalier was the calmest of 
them all. 

“ When ? ” she asked. 

Ten days ago, as the day was breaking. She had 
been sick ever since she came to us. I was with her 
all that night — she did not suffer much.” The mes- 
senger’s strength had proved less equal to the rest of 
her journey than she had imagined. As the last words 
left her lips, her figure swayed, tottered for a moment, 
and then fell forward. 

It was Rene who caught her and laid her on a pallet 
near by. 

“Have we any wine?” he asked, glancing up for a 
moment. He spoke like one who had heard tidings of 
great joy. 

It was Eglantine, with tears still raining down her 
face, who brought him the flask. “You do not think 
of yourself, Rene,” she whispered. 

He met her eyes for an instant. 

“ The bitterness of death was past when they took 
her from me,” he said in a low voice. “I have prayed 
for this, day and night, ever since.” 

The stranger had by this time opened her eyes, and 
was rejecting the cup placed to her lips. 

“ I do not need it ; I will be better presently,” she 
murmured. 

“Drink!” was the firm response. No one ever 
hesitated when Rene Chevalier spoke in that tone. 
Without further remonstrance the new-comer swal- 
lowed the draught and closed her eyes once more. 
Eglantine had already loosened her hood and cloak. 
In a few seconds a faint color began to show itself in 
her face. Rene let go his hold of her wrist. “You are 
better now,” he said quietly. “ No,” as she seemed 
about to speak; “you must be still for a while yet. 


324 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


You shall tell us the rest presently. We have enough 
to thank God for to-night.” He turned to his mother, 
She has seen the King in His beauty ; in the land 
that is very far off, none shall make her afraid. Is it 
not best so, my mother ? ” 

“ To depart and be with Christ is far better,” an- 
swered Monique Chevalier solemnly ; and something 
in her face told Rene that from that hour her hold 
upon earth was loosened. The Master’s presence w'-as 
better than any life here. 

Pepin plucked at his friend’s sleeve with a bowl of 
potage in his hand. 

“ From what Joan tells me, our new friend needs 
food as much as she does rest,” he whispered. “ She 
is the young nun, M. Chevalier, who had charge of 
Mistress Agnes in the convent, and she has suffered 
not a little, Joan says, for her kindness to our young 
lady. They have kept her on bread and water ever 
since Mistress Agnes died because she did not give 
them warning of the end.” 

With a smothered cry the brother thrust the bowl 
of potage into the stranger’s hands. She had by 
this time struggled to a sitting posture, and met his 
eyes with a faint smile. 

“ What were meat and drink to the truth that she 
had brought me ? ” she asked in a low voice, and then 
she looked past him to his mother. “ I had promised 
her they should not disturb her at the end if I could 
help it. I kept the truth all that day, though my 
heart was breaking. I would have died before they 
should have broken in on the peace of those Iasi 
hours. No ; do not ask me to wait longer,” as Rene 
seemed about to interrupt, “ I am more used to fasts 
than Joan know^s ; it was only the joy that was too 
much for me. It will be more than food to talk about 


TN THE MORNING, 


325 


Agnes, better than rest to tell you how she helped me to 
find the light.” She paused for a moment, and looked 
wistfully about the circle, now hushed and listening. 

You know what it is to love the truth — to love it 
better than houses, and lands, and friends or life — but 
you do not know what it is to live without it — to hun- 
ger and thirst for it, year after year, and yet never be 
able to find it. That was what I had done until I knew 
Agnes Chevalier. I had never known any home but 
the convent. I had never had any one to love me, 
that I could remember. All I wanted, all I needed, my 
confessor told me, I would find in God. Something 
in my heart, too, told me the same. Of course, I did 
not expect that God would notice a foolish, ignorant, 
little child, but I thought when I was old enough to 
take the veil. He would begin to answer my prayers. 
Then, I thought, my religion will begin to satisfy me. 
I will be able to conquer the sin in my heart, and I 
can be at peace with God. But when my novitiate 
was ended, and I had fully entered upon my vocation. 
He was as far off as ever. If I seemed to climb a few 
steps up to Him one day, I slipped back the next. 
Nothing I could do, nothing my confessor could say, 
could take the stain from my conscience, or fill the 
void in my heart. Only one thing grew clearer and 
clearer. Through all my years of blind feeling after 
God, I never doubted that He would satisfy me, if I 
could only find Him. And Father Ambrose had told 
me the blessed Saviour himself had said : ‘ Seek and 
ye shall find ; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.’ ” 

Did it never occur to you that you might not 
be seeking Him in the right way ? ” asked Madame 
Chevalier gently. She was sitting beside the stranger 
on the pallet, holding her hand. Rene’s face was in 
the shadow. 


326 HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


Marguerite shook her head sadly. 

“ How could it ? ” she asked simply. “ I had no one 
to teach me but my confessor, and he did not point 
out any other way. Do not blame him,” she pleaded, 
fancying she read disapproval in the other’s glance. 
“ If he did not guide me aright, it was because he too 
was in the dark. He gave me the best he knew, I am 
sure of that, and if it had not been for the deep long- 
ing for God, which he had nursed in my heart, I might 
not have known the truth when it came. But I did 
not mean to make so much of this part of my story,” 
a slight flush rising to the delicate face ; “ it was only 
necessary to tell you something that you might under- 
stand what Agnes was to me. One morning last De- 
cember my confessor sent for me. I had more than 
once asked him to set me some task, which would 
satisfy my conscience and gain me favor on high. He 
said he could now grant my prayer. One of the Hu- 
guenots, brought to the convent that morning, was a 
young girl, in whose family he felt some interest. He 
had interposed to have her spared the rigorous meth- 
ods of conversion, to which her companions would be 
subjected, and, as a special favor to himself, asked of 
the mother superior that she might be placed under 
my instruction. It was a great responsibility for one 
so young, he said, but he had taught me carefully, 
and he believed I could do more with her than any 
one else. She was deeply prejudiced against our 
Church. It was necessary to allay her suspicions. 
‘Win her heart, before you attempt to overthrow her 
heresies,’ he told me, and then he said I would be per- 
mitted to show her every kindness, and that if I could 
convert her from the error of her ways, I would not 
only save a soul from death, but be able to present to 
God a gift which must be well-pleasing in His eyes.” 


IN THE MORNINC. 


327 


“ I wonder he was not afraid to bring a seeking soul 
and the light so near together,” murmured Rene, look- 
ing up for a moment. 

“You forget that he did not know it was the light,” 
she answered sadly. “And you do not know how 
bigoted and fixed I was in my own faith, though it 
did not satisfy me. I had been taught that the Hu- 
guenots were a wicked, blasphemous sect, forever cut 
off from God ; I loathed Agnes’ heresies, though my 
heart went out to her. How shall I tell you what she 
was to me — you, who have known and loved her al- 
ways, but have had others to be dear to you ? I had 
never had any one to care for before. It was well for 
me that I did not understand w^hat made me hurry 
through my other tasks to have more time to spend 
with her, or why I was so happy when her sad face 
brightened at my coming. I thought it was only zeal 
for her conversion which made the hours I spent with 
her so short and her trust and confidence so sweet. One 
day, when Father Ambrose warned me to let no taint 
of earthly affection mar the fairness of my offering, I 
was startled, and I think my surprise allayed his fears. 
For several weeks Agnes was unable to leave her bed 
in the infirmary. The fright and exposure had been 
too much for her. Father Ambrose said. Often and 
often as I watched beside her, I wondered at the look 
of peace on her face and the soft light in her eyes. 
One day I said to her : ‘ Agnes, you look very happy 
for a girl who has been separated from her home and 
friends.’ Her eyes filled with tears for a moment, and 
then she smiled sweetly : ‘ I am very happy,’ she said ; 
‘ no one can help being happy. Sister Marguerite, who 
knows that God loves them.’ 

“‘God cannot love you until you abandon your er- 
rors,’ I returned hastily, but I was afraid to continue 


328 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


the conversation, and went away. I could have an- 
swered arguments, but that tone of loving confi- 
dence was something I could not reason with. Was it 
possible that her religion had done for her, what mine 
could not do for me ? All that night I knelt on the 
cold floor of my cell, fighting what seemed to me a 
suggestion of the evil one. The next day I told my 
confessor I thought it was time to begin to wean Agnes 
from her heresies, and he gave me a book to read to 
her. She looked troubled when she saw it. ‘ I will 
never change my religion,’ she said earnestly; but when 
I plead with her, if she loved me to listen, she was too 
gentle to refuse. After that, I read to her every day. 
She listened so quietly that I was much encouraged. 
As soon as she was able to leave the infirmary, she was 
given a cell adjoining mine, and I was permitted to 
take her occasionally into the convent garden. One 
morning, by Father Ambrose’s direction, I led her 
without warning into the chapel. But no tears, no 
entreaties, could persuade her to kneel with me before 
the image of the Virgin. ‘ It is written. Thou shalt not 
make unto thee any graven image ; thou shalt not bow 
to them nor serve them,’ she whispered in her faint 
sweet voice, and from that we could not move her. 
My confessor was bitterly disappointed. He said we 
had been too lenient with her, and ordered that she 
should be kept for a week in solitary confinement, to 
think over her obstinacy. Meanwhile he took good 
care I should not lack occupation, by assigning me the 
task of arranging the convent library, long disused. 
He little guessed the treasure he was placing in my 
reach, when he did so. The very first day, in moving 
some old tomes, which looked as if they had not been 
touched for years, I came across a Latin Gospel 
of St. John. I cannot think who could have left it 


IN THE MORNING. 


329 

there, but I shall always feel that God meant it for 
me.” 

Marguerite paused for a moment, overcome with 
some deep emotion. 

“ The seeker and the word had met at last,” said 
Rene Chevalier, looking up with his rare sweet smile. 

‘‘Yes,” she sighed, “but the seeker was still blind. 
I read only one verse, and then in terror closed the 
book and thrust it back into its hiding-place. It was 
forbidden, and I had committed a terrible sin. Yet 
some impulse — I could not analyze it then — made me 
resolve to keep my discovery a secret, and all through 
that troubled week, wherever I went, the book seemed 
drawing me, until sometimes even in the night I felt 
as if I must rise and go to it.” 

“And the word?” asked Madame Chevalier softly. 

“ It was the Lord’s answer to His disciple. I could 
not understand it then — ‘ Have I been so long time 
with thee, and yet hast thou not known me, Philip?’ 
Now it seems to me as though I had heard it from his 
own lips.” The nun’s eyes filled with tears, and there 
was a tender silence, which she was the first to break. 

“At the end of the week I was permitted to see 
Agnes once more. She welcomed me with a bright 
smile. It had been a very happy week to her, she 
said. I was shocked to see how wasted she had grown 
in those few days. For the first time I noticed the far- 
away look in her eyes. The truth flashed upon me : 
she was dying. And with that truth, flashed another. 
The heart I had vowed to God alone, I had permitted 
to entwine about this gentle girl, with a strength it 
was no longer in my power to break. 

“‘Agnes,’ I asked despairingly, ‘do you know you 
cannot live much longer ? ’ 

“ To my surprise, she smiled gently. ‘ I have known 


330 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


it for a good while,’ she said. ‘Father Ambrose told 
me yesterday that I had only a few more days to pre- 
pare.’ 

“ ‘ And you still persist in your errors — you will break 
my heart by dying out of the Church ! ’ I cried. Be- 
fore I could say more, she put her arms about my 
neck and kissed me. 

“ ‘ I know you love me,’ she said in her soft, husky 
voice. ‘ That has been one of God’s tender mercies 
to me here ; but you ought to be glad to let me go. 
Think of what it will be to be like Him, and to see 
Him as He is.’ And as I burst into tears, she went on 
to tell me of how near God had been to her, what rest 
and joy He had given to her, and how she had been 
praying for me, but had never dared to speak before. 
I knew I ought not to listen, but I had no power to 
put away the soft, weak arms about my neck ; I could 
not put her away, as I had done the written Word. 
Nay, the very words she spoke held me too. Was not 
this what I had longed for all my life, and never been 
able to find ? Yet what madness to think it could 
have been hidden from my confessor, and revealed to 
her ! When I stammered something like this she 
smiled. ‘ If you want to know whether it is the right 
way, only try it,’ she whispered. ‘ Oh, Marguerite, if 
we only had a Bible, it would be so easy to make it 
plain to you. You could not doubt God’s Word.’ I 
remembered the hidden Gospel in the library, and 
made up my mind to be shut out from it no longer. 
But Agnes had already had more excitement than was 
good for her, and I only told her I would think over 
what she said, but that seemed to content her, and 
then for the first time she spoke to me about you all.” 
Marguerite glanced around with a soft sigh at the 
circle of tear-wet, shining faces. “ Ah, how different 


IN THE MORNING. 


331 


it all was from the selfish, narrow lives I had known — • 
from what I had been told of the world without ! But 
i have not time to dwell upon that now. A strange 
thing happened that evening. I had been to take 
Agnes her bowl of bread and milk, and as I came out, 
closing the door behind me, two of the older nuns 
passed me in the corridor. 

‘If Father Ambrose does not take care, our Saint 
Marguerite will become too fond of the little heretic,’ 
I heard one say ; and the other answered : 

“ ‘ Yes, blood will tell. I never thought it was safe 
putting the two together,’ and then she dropped her 
voice to a whisper. ‘ They say her mother’s attach- 
ment to the Church was only formal, that it was be- 
cause she was found teaching tenets to the child that 
they took her from her.’ 

“ ‘ Hush ! The holy father would be very angry if 
that should get to soeur Marguerite’s ears,’ warned 
the first speaker, and then they glided on, little dream- 
ing that they left me behind in the shadow. A few 
days before the revelation would have overwhelmed, 
but now a window of hope seemed opened above me. 
Father Ambrose had always told me that my parents 
had died within the pale of the Church. ’ Was it pos- 
sible that in the truth had slept an untruth ? Had my 
mother really at heart been attached to the religion 
that Agnes loved ? had she tried to teach it to me, her 
child ? was it for that I had been separated from her ? 
Then she must have prayed for me, as Agnes had said 
her mother was doing for her ! Was it in answer to 
those prayers that the Gospel had been placed in my 
path, and Agnes had been sent to me ? Why had my 
confessor been afraid to tell me ? Did he anticipate 
the instinct which would demand to see and choose 
for itself ? I had been assigned to a penance in the 


332 


no IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


chapel that night. As soon as the convent was asleep, 
I crept into the library beyond ; I had been entrusted 
with the key ; while I was dusting and arranging the 
books, my great fear was that the one I longed for 
might have been moved, but it was still in its place, 
and by the aid of the taper I had brought with me I 
began to read. After that I had only one other fear — 
of being interrupted before I had finished, and I soon 
forgot even that. Even you, who love the Word, can- 
not know all that that hour was to me — any more than 
we, who have always seen, can imagine what the rap- 
ture of sight must have been to the man who ' was 
born blind.’ All the years I had been seeking. He 
had been close beside me, and yet I had ‘ not known 
Him.’ ” And then for many minutes the nun was 
silent, gazing with shining eyes into the fire. 

“ Go on,” pleaded Eglantine at last. 

“ The word is sweeter to us even than the name of 
her we love,” added Rene. 

She looked up with a smile. “Agnes said it would 
be so, but I cannot put much in speech. It was mid- 
night when I began to read ; when I closed the book 
it was daylight in the world, and in my soul. I had 
*■ seen the Lord.’ I knew now why Agnes felt no need 
of priestly mediator, or saints to intercede ; why she 
could not kneel to the Virgin ; why she was not afraid 
of death. It had all been made clear in Him, and 
what I was not yet able to bear. He would teach me 
in time. When I should stand before my confessor 
there might be some questions — as it had been with 
the blind man and the rulers of the synagogue — that 
I might not be able to answer. But of one thing I was 
certain : He had opened my eyes. 

“ When I carried Agnes her breakfast she asked no 
questions. 


Ilv THE MORNING. 


333 


“‘You were seeking God ; I knew you would find 
Him,’ she said joyfully. And when I told her it was 
she who had led me to the light, her cup ran over. 

“ ‘ I wish my mother could know ; she would thank 
God for sending me here,’ she said, and then she asked 
me what I would do about praying to the saints, and 
worshipping the mass. 

“ I had already made up my mind about that : she 
must not suffer for what she had done for me. ‘It 
will be only for a few days, Agnes,’ I told her. ‘ I am 
sure God will forgive me, and when you are at rest, I 
will tell Father Ambrose everything.’ 

“ ‘ He will be very angry ; what will they do to you ? ’ 
she asked. 

“ I told her that at least they could not separate me 
from the truth, and that I could never be unhappy 
with that, but she was not satisfied. ‘They will be 
very cruel to you,’ she said ; ‘ I cannot leave you to 
suffer. Sister Marguerite. You must try and make 
your escape. Perhaps you have friends, mourning 
over you, even now.’ 

“ ‘ I would not know where to look for them ; I have 
never heard my mother’s name,’ I told her, but she in- 
sisted : ‘You could go to my mother, then. If she 
could know I had kept the faith, and taught you to 
love it, she would be very happy, and she has had so 
much sorrow. Promise me, you will at least make the 
attempt, before you tell Father Ambrose. If you fail, 
you will be no worse off than before.’ I had no power 
to refuse her anything, though I reminded her sadly 
that, even if I could escape from the convent, I knew 
nothing of the country and how to find her friends. 
But that did not seem to worry her. ‘ God will help 
you,’ she said, and I saw she was too near the hour when 
she would leave all cares behind, to comprehend any 


334 


iioiv THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


earthly difficulty. I did not dare to be much with her 
during the day : I was so much afraid they would find 
out she was going and torment her at the last. But 
when I crept to her cell that night, she did not seem 
to have missed me much. ‘ I have been asleep, and I 
have had such happy dreams,’ she said ; ‘ I thought 
my mother was here,’ and soon she was asleep again, 
holding my hand.” The speaker paused, and stoop- 
ing, laid her soft cheek against the mother’s trembling 
hands. “ I thought of you, through those long hours 
as I watched. It was you who had the best right to 
be there, and when she woke, she fancied it was you 
beside her : she had forgotten the convent, and thought 
herself up here on her moss pallet in the hills. 

“ ‘ The cave is very light, and it looks larger than it 
ever did before,’ she whispered. ‘The moon must be 
very bright, my mother, and I hear singing. Where can 
it be ? ’ 

“ It was a cloudy night, and the air was as still as 
death ; I could not answer her. Her voice was fainter 
when she spoke again. 

“ ‘ The light is growing brighter. Is it morning, my 
mother ? ’ 

“ I had lifted her in my arms, that she might breathe 
more freely. 

“‘Nearly,’ I told her, she would not have much 
time to wait. 

. “‘Then put me down again,’ she murmured, ‘and 
turn my face to the light. I would like to see the day 
break.’ And before I could lay her head upon her pil- 
low, she had seen it — but not here ! ” 

There was a long silence. The ruddy firelight 
showed tears on strong men’s faces, but comfortless 
grief on none. Marguerite’s head was resting on 
Madame Chevalier’s shoulder. At last Rene spoke. 


IN THE MORNING. 


335 

“We have not yet heard how you made your es- 
cape.” 

Marguerite glanced at Joan. 

“ Part of it is not to my credit, Master Chevalier,” 
said the farmer’s wife; “ but for that reason, I had best 
tell it myself. I held out for a month, beaten and 
starved, in the dungeon where they kept me, and 
then I gave in. I thought God would forgive me for 
the weakness of the body, but oh ! I had no peace 
after that, and when I heard that our gentle Mistress 
Agnes had kept the faith to the last, I was more miser- 
able still. There was a great stir in the convent when 
it was known she had died without confession, and 
that soeur Marguerite had been with her, but had given 
no warning to the sisterhood. She will never tell you 
about it herself, but she suffered many things, I can 
testify, for our dear young lady, and my heart went 
out to her for it, even though I did not know at first 
that she loved the truth too. One day as she passed 
by when I was scrubbing the floor, she spoke a kind 
word to me, and my sore heart overflowed, and I told 
her about the little ones I had left in the hills. She 
said nothing more then, but that night she came to 
me, and told me that she too loved the truth, and 
wanted to leave the convent, and that, if I would help 
her to find Madame Chevalier, she would take me with 
her. You can guess what answer I made to that. She 
had her plan all ready, and two nights later, we broke 
a bar in our window, and tying a clothes-rope to the 
sill, let ourselves down to the road. It was a stormy 
night, and we met no one on the road ; but we might 
have failed to reach here after all, if it had not been 
for my friend. Master Pepin, who found us this even- 
ing buried in a cave by some miserable dragoons.” 

“ Tut ! say no more about that,” interposed Pepin 


336 THEV rept the faith. 

cheerily. “And now, friend Joan, I read it in thine 
eye : thou art longing to be on the road once more. 
Thou wilt not have much farther to go; Marc and the 
little ones are in a cave scarce a mile farther up the 
mountain, and I stand ready to accompany thee. Ah, 
I thought thou wert wearing thy heart out ! ” as the 
mother sprang with a glowing face to her feet. Her 
farewell of Marguerite, however, was not taken with- 
out tears. 

“You must let me bring my man and the little ones 
down to thank ycu for themselves,” she whispered, 
“and if we ever have a roof over our heads again, 
mademoiselle, our home is yours.” 

“ Nay, God has given Marguerite to me,” interposed 
Madame Chevalier tenderly, and Marguerite looked up 
into her face and smiled. 


CHAPTER XX. 


“ MANY WATERS CANNOT QUENCH LOVE.’® 

E glantine was the first to rise the next morning. 

She was standing at the entrance of the cave, 
watching the winter sunrise flame up from behind the 
misty peaks, when she became aware of Rene standing 
beside her. 

“ ‘ It is a day which the Lord hath made. We will 
rejoice, and be glad in it,’ ” he said reverently, and 
she knew he was thinking of the light that had come 
to the young nun, and the morning into which Agnes 
had passed. Her eyes filled with tears. Would any 
message ever come to her out of the awful darkness 
into which Henri had passed, and would it be such a 
message as this ? 

Rene was looking at her searchingly. “ Eglantine,” 
he said hesitatingly, “ I have something to tell you. I 
do not know whether it will comfort or distress you.” 
Then, as she looked up quickly : “ My mother says 
you have begun to think that Henri has been released 
from his sufferings. I have reason to believe that he 
still lives.” 

“ Still lives — Oh, Rene ! ” The glory flaming up into 
the winter sky was less beautiful than the rush of joy 
and hope into her face. 

“ Have you seen him, or heard from him? Tell me 
quickly. Will I ever look into his face again ?” 

Calm yourself, my sister ! I have obtained only 

( 337 ) 


338 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


the faintest clue, and though it has convinced me that 
he is yet alive, it affords no hope of anything else.” 

But that is much — so much to me,” she sobbed. 
‘‘ Oh, Rene, my faith is not as triumphant, my love is 
not as unselfish as yours. I deceived myself, when I 
thought it would be a comfort to know that he was at 
rest. It is like being taken out of a grave myself only 
to know that he breathes the same air, looks up to the 
same stars that I do.” 

Rene drew her hand through his arm, and led her 
a few steps beyond the cave. “ I would have told 
you last night, if I had known it would be so much to 
you,” he said penitently. “ Eglantine, I have neither 
seen nor heard from your husband, but you shall 
judge for yourself whether my suspicions are well- 
founded. In my dungeon at Toulouse I found your 
name cut over and over in the rocky wall. I told 
myself it was a coincidence, and that I had no right 
to build on it ; but when I found others, equally 
well-known; ‘Beaumont,’ ‘Agnes,’ ‘La Petite Ga- 
brielle,’ I could no longer doubt. There was but one 
hand that could have linked those names together, 
and left the imprint of its love upon the stone. I said 
nothing of the inscriptions on the wall, but I tried 
cautiously to find from my jailers who had been the 
former occupant of the cell. At first vainly. The 
chaplain professed ignorance. The turnkey bluntly 
refused to be interrogated. At last, a simple, lay 
monk, who waited on me when I was sick, was induced 
to speak. Henri had won his heart — as he could win 
every heart that was not utterly bad or callous to the 
last ; however, my friar-friend would never be induced 
to mention the gentleman’s name ; but I could not 
doubt his description. Monsieur, he said, was tall and 
handsome, with an eye that went straight through 


'MANY waters:' 


339 


your soul, and a voice that made you long to do him 
a service. In his delirium he had often talked fondly 
of his wife and babe, and some one whom he called 
Agnes. He had never wavered in his faith, though 
often put to the extremity of the question. The pa- 
tience with which he bore his injuries was wonderful. 
He rejoiced that he was counted worthy to suffer, he 
said. One day, he had a visit from a kinsman, a soft- 
stepping, soft-speaking gentleman, my old friend said, 
but it did not seem a happy one. Monsieur looked 
worn and white after he left, and the kinsman never 
came again, and from that day monsieur grew weaker 
and weaker, until at last the leech of the prisoner said 
he would die, if he did not have change of air and 
some respite from his sufferings, so they had taken 
him away, a few days before I came.” 

‘‘ Where ? ” 

It was not easy to find out. My old friend first 
said he did not know, then admitted that he dared not 
tell. It was not until I had received my sentence, and 
he thought there was no possibility of my ever making 
use of the information, that he consented to name the 
tower of constancy — the fortress of Aigues-Mortes.” 

‘‘The most impregnable fortress in France!” she 
echoed. 

“Yes,” with quick comprehension. “ I warned you, 
Eglantine, that there was nothing for you to hope for. 
Yet I could not rest in my fetters while I had this ray 
of tidings for you. I think, if it had not been for that, 
I could never have caught at the freedom I could not 
share with herT His voice broke a little. 

She held out her hand to him gratefully. 

“Yet you came home to find she was free before 
you,” she whispered. “God was better to you than 
your fears, Rene,” 


340 


HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


“He has done for me more than I have ever asked 
or thought,” he answered in a suppressed voice, and 
turned to walk back with her to the cave. 

“You have not told me why you did not bring Jean 
with you,” said Eglantine. 

“ He could not be induced to return to the place 
which he left with his wife and child. He broke 
away from me as soon as we reached the hills. But 
he will die before he will suffer himself to be taken 
again.” 

“ I wish I could see him ; I believe I could say 
something to comfort him. Did you tell him about 
Henri?” 

“Yes. It was the only way I could rouse him to 
help me in my attempt at escape, but the old apathy 
settled upon him as soon as we were free. He has not 
been quite right since his sorrow.” 

Henri’s wife did not answer. A vague plan was be- 
ginning to form itself in her heart, but Rene had al- 
ready done too much for her : she would not voice it 
to him. 

“Come and look at Antoine,” she said, as they re- 
entered the cave. “ He has never left his pallet since 
the night of the preche and the joy of your return, 
and the tidings from Agnes has been too much for 
him, I think.” 

The old servant lay as if asleep, as they approached 
him, but at the first touch of Eglantine’s hand, he 
opened his eyes. 

“Ay, ay, mademoiselle,” he said in a tone of feeble 
alacrity. “ The captain has already given the order- 
The horses will be ready in a few moments.” 

He made an attempt to rise, and apparently uncon- 
scious of his failure, lay back smiling on his pillow. 

“ It is that way almost all the time now,” whispered 


Waters. 


Eglantine. He seems to think himself back in the 
old castle in Bearn, with my father and his sister.” 

He is in sight of home,” answered Rene softly, as 
he laid the withered hand back upon the pallet. 
“ Antoine, my old friend, do you not know me ? Are 
you not glad to see me home again ? ” 

But Antoine did not hear. His eyes were dilated ; 
with a shaking finger he pointed to some object 
behind them. Rene and Eglantine turned hastily, 
and saw Marguerite, with little Gabrielle in her arms, 
a few paces away. The young nun stood where the 
light, coming through a crevice in the rocks above, 
fell full upon her face. The soft rings of auburn hair 
upon her temples gleamed with gold. The tender 
eyes she lifted from the child’s face were blue as the 
winter sky without. 

“ My lady ! my lady ! ” cried the old man in sudden 
rapture, stretching out his hands. “ Have they given 
the little one back to you, or has it all been an evil 
dream ? ” 

Trembling from head to foot, Eglantine went up to 
Marguerite. 

He has taken you for my mother, who died years 
ago. Come, and speak to him,” she faltered. 

And Marguerite came, and stood beside the bed. 

Antoine’s gaze was still riveted upon her face ; drops 
of joy glistened upon his cheeks. 

I thought you would not forget the old man in his 
weakness and pain,” he murmured. Then with a sud- 
den change of tone, a swift brightening of the eye : 
“Give yourself no uneasiness, madame. Nannetteand 
I will attend to everything. You have only to be quiet, 
and trust to us.” 

“ He has gone back to that sad return from Flanders,” 
whispered Eglantine, and laid her cool hand upon his 


342 


HOIV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


brow. “ Antoine, you have been dreaming. Have you 
forgotten that we are in hiding in the hills ? This is 
not my mother, but the nun who brought us the news 
about Agnes.” 

A troubled look crossed the wrinkled face. 

“Not my lady!” murmured Antoine. “Yet the 
same hair, the same eyes, the brow like a Madonna — 
I cannot understand.” 

“ Do not try,” interposed Rene gently. “Your mis- 
tress shall watch beside you while you sleep, Antoine. 
When you wake, it will be clearer.” 

His glance told the two women that the waking 
would be on the other side of the mystery. But he 
was mistaken. 

Half an hour later, as they still sat watching beside 
him, a sudden quiver ran across the old face. The 
dying eyes once more unclosed : this time, with a look 
solemn and far, as though Antoine had already caught 
a glimpse of the invisible. 

“You are our little Mademoiselle Mignonnette ! ” 
he said in a clear voice, looking up at Marguerite. 
“‘Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in 
peace.’ ” He reached out for her hand, but before he 
could raise it to his lips, he had passed, smiling, into 
the Presence, where there “ is neither sorrow, nor 
sighing, nor any such thing.” 

“ I would like to tell you about my mother, here ! ” 
Eglantine whispered an hour later, when she and the 
nun stood once more looking down on the shut eyes 
and folded hands. And there, in the old cavern, be- 
side the dead, with little Gabrielle looking up wonder- 
ingly into their faces — the story Nannette had told 
beside the firelit hearth to the happy child, was told 
once more. 

The other members of the refuge household gath- 


'MANV waters:^ 


343 


ered silently about during the recital, and there was a 
moment’s tender uncertainty at its close. Then Mar- 
guerite lifted her face from her hands. The color was 
fluttering in her cheek. Through the great tears that 
filled her eyes a new soul was astir. 

“ Have you ever heard anything of — your sister ? ” 
she faltered. 

Eglantine had risen to her feet, and was holding out 
her hands. 

“ I believe I have found her ! ” she cried joyfully, 
and the next moment they were in each other’s arms. 

“ If it was my mother who gave me to you, it is God 
and Agnes who have sent Marguerite,” Eglantine said 
at last, smiling up into her foster-mother’s face. “She 
will be a far better daughter to you than ever I have 
been, aunt Monique.” 

But Madame Chevalier shook her head. 

“You are my joy and crown. Eglantine ! ” she said 
tenderly, yet her lips quivered, as she kissed Mar- 
guerite. “I am almost selfish enough to wish I were 
the only one who had a claim upon you,” she mur- 
mured. “I fear your grandfather will not be willing 
to let you stay with me always.” 

Marguerite’s face was still flushing and paling. 

“ I can scarcely believe it yet,” she said tremulously. 
“Are you sure we are not making a mistake — that we do 
not build too much on what may be only an accidental 
resemblance ? ” But v/hen she heard of Madame Che- 
valier’s interview with Father Ambrose and her confess- 
or’s evasion of the direct charge, her doubts vanished. 

“I know him so well — he would have denied it at 
once, if he could,” she said, and from that hour ac- 
cepted her new ties without demur. But when Eg- 
lantine would have called her by her childish name, 
she shook her head. 


344 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“ I like best the one by which Agnes called me,” she 
said in a low voice. And, that evening, when Antoine 
had been laid beneath his winding-sheet of snow, and 
the circle sat hushed, though not sorrowing, about the 
cavern-fire, she drew a book from her sleeve. 

‘‘It is the Latin Gospel I found in the convent li- 
brary,” she explained briefly, and then she showed 
them between the leaves a shining curl. “ It was she 
who brought me the light, who taught me that God 
was love. You will not blame me if I always love her 
best ? ” she pleaded. 

Her sister smiled through her tears. 

“ I can only love you better for loving Agnes,” she 
answered. 

Rene reached out his hand for the book. When he 
handed it back there was a tear gleaming on the sunny 
tress. But a moment later. Eglantine saw him whisper 
with his mother, and rising, go into the little niche, 
which Agnes had called her chamber. When he came 
out, he had his sister’s Bible. 

“ I think she would like you to have it,” he said, 
putting it into Marguerite’s hand. 

Eglantine thought she had never seen a softer light 
upon his face. 

It was their last night in the old cavern — hallowed 
by the feet of those who would no more go in and out 
among them. 

The next day, instead of the weekly basket of pro- 
visions, came a letter from M. Laval to Eglantine. 

“ I fear your whereabouts in the hills is suspected, 
and that you are liable to be surprised,” wrote the un- 
happy banker. “You must at once find another hid- 
ing-place, and take greater precautions. 

“ Monique was right. The nun under whose care 
Agnes was placed at St. Veronique, proves to be no 


'MANY WATERSr 


345 


other than my unfortunate Aimee’s eldest child — whom 
I long since believed to be in a better world — and she 
has contrived to make her escape from the convent 
with one of the Huguenot converts. Father Ambrose 
no longer attempts to conceal her parentage, but 
boldly taxes me with having been aware of it ever 
since his conversation with Madame Chevalier. The 
matter is kept quiet for the honor of the Church, but 
he vows he will move heaven and earth but that he 
will discover the fugitive and bring her back. He is 
a terrible man. Eglantine. I can extort from him not 
a syllable about Agnes ; the news of Rene’s escape has 
added fuel to his resentment. Nothing could convince 
him that your hapless sister was not under my roof 
but a search of the house, and now he is himself or- 
ganizing and directing the search in the hills. If any 
of you fall into his clutches, you are lost ; he will show 
no mercy. If your sister has succeeded in reaching 
you, which I can scarcely believe, hide her in the 
depths of the earth, and watch your opportunity to 
escape across the border. It is your only hope. Some- 
times I wish we were all in a happier and better world, 
but I suppose in your opinion, a poor turn-coat has 
nothing to say about that. I feel certain my motions 
are watched ; I do not dare to send the basket of pro- 
visions, but enclose money which you can use instead. 
If you can make your way over to England, you will 
find all you need deposited to your credit in the Lon- 
don Bank. Adieu, my poor child, and God have mercy 
on us all ! ” 

The month that followed was one of peril and hard- 
ship. Pierre Laval had not over-estimated the relent- 
less energy with which Father Ambrose would pursue 
his search. Day after day the dragoons scoured the 
hills, and the refugees, driven from one hiding-place 


346 HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 


to another, soon found themselves too large a house- 
hold to travel with the secrecy and swiftness that were 
necessary. Sadly, the friends who had so long shared 
danger and privation resolved to part. Pepin, who 
had lately received a letter from a brother artisan who 
had made his way over into England, turned his face 
to the western coast. The needs of his young family 
and the thought of the good wages to be earned in 
the Manchester looms, had begun to outweigh in his 
mind the penalties attached to emigration. But Rene 
was too well aware how closely he would be watched 
for at every door of egress, to venture for some time, 
at least, beyond the shelter of the hills, and bidding 
his friend Godspeed, led his little band southward, 
from one covert to another, always travelling by night, 
never venturing to tarry long anywhere, often in 
danger of being betrayed by timid or false brethren — 
sometimes so nearly within the reach of their pur- 
suers that they dared not kindle a fire or venture out 
to purchase food. Once or twice, they even heard the 
dragoons pass the cave where they lay hidden, and 
the young mother, in fear, had hushed the laughter of 
her babe, lest the tender music should bring down 
sorrow and death upon them all. Little Gabrielle was 
now a plump, rosy babe of nine months, upon whose 
sturdy health and sunny spirit the dark homes and 
strange cradles in which she found herself seemed to 
leave no shadow. 

She has Henri’s happy temper,” Eglantine whis- 
pered one day, when some baby-wile had drawn a smile 
from them all ; but Rene understood why his mother, 
in answer, only stooped and kissed her. Not once, 
through all that trying time, had Henri’s wife ever 
lost heart, or her words of hope been lacking. 

With Marguerite, it was different, 


^^MANY waters:' 


347 


She had been very happy at first over Agnes’ Bible, 
but the joy, whose “clear shining” had been so beau- 
tiful to them all, had slowly faded. Some indefinable 
trouble had begun to cloud her tender eyes. She ut- 
tered no complaint, but she was evidently ill at ease. 
In their family councils she sat silent. More than 
once Eglantine found her weeping over little Gabri- 
elle. 

“We must make allowances for her lonely life, and 
be patient until she gives us her confidence,” Rene 
said to his mother ; but he was, in truth, seriously 
alarmed. 

They had now reached a lonely part ot the hills, 
and had ventured for a day or two to take shelter in a 
shepherd’s deserted hut. Marguerite had been sitting 
silent for some time in the doorway, her eyes fixed, 
not on the Bible that lay open upon her lap, but on 
the blue reach of sky visible above the mountain 
peaks. Suddenly she closed the book, and came and 
stood before Madame Chevalier. 

“ I must go back to the convent ! Say that I may 
go back,” she pleaded, in an abrupt, trembling voice. 

“Marguerite ! ” exclaimed the mother, horror-struck. 

Rene and Eglantine, standing by, could only look 
on in mute amaze. 

“ Do not be angry with me ! Do not make it harder 
for me,” hurried on the quivering voice. “ I would 
never have come away but to bring you the tidings 
about Agnes ; and now that is done, it is borne in on 
me that I ought to go back. You have all been very 
good to me, but you have my sister, you do not really 
need me, and I have brought you only sorrow and 
trouble.” 

“ Marguerite ! ” repeated Monique Chevalier once 
more, this time in a tone of keen reproach. But she 


348 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


was relieved of her first fear, that the girl’s brain was 
failing. 

A darker dread had, however, laid hold upon Rene. 

“Have our privations been too severe for you?” 
he asked sternly. “Is the truth worth less than it 
costs. Marguerite ? ” 

She turned and looked at him, — such a look of grave, 
gentle reproach that Eglantine burst into tears. 

“ Did I leave a soft couch and a plentiful board to 
come to you ? Will I go back to anything but stripes, 
and revilings, and imprisonment?” asked the elder 
sister, and then she sank at Monique Chevalier’s feet, 
and covered the mother’s hand with her tears. “ Do 
not think me ungrateful. Do not think I have not 
been happy with you!” she entreated. “What are 
these outside discomforts to the love and light I have 
found with you ? Ah ! )^ou do not know what it has 
cost me to make up my mdnd to go back. But it is 
burnt into me night and day, that I came away with- 
out witnessing for the light, that I turned my back 
upon the Cross. You have had nothing but sorrow 
and trouble since I came to you : God will not let us 
rest until I go back, and give His message to the 
darkened souls I left behind me.” 

They understood her at last. With a low cry, Ma- 
dame Chevalier folded her in her arms, and looked up 
at her son. 

“ It is a remnant of her old Romish bondage,” he 
said harshly. “ A relic of their superstitious ‘ will- 
worship and voluntary humility.’ Marguerite ! if you 
are trying to atone for the past, you discredit your 
Lord’s perfect work. If you think to make yourself 
more pleasing in His sight, you are untrue to the lib- 
erty wherev/ith He has made you free. Voluntary 
martyrdom is only another form of penance, and pen- 


'MANY WATERS. 


349 


ance is slavery ! To go back to St. Veronique, to the 
death from which He saved you, is to go back to your 
old yoke, not to His cross nor the honor of His name." 

“ Softly, Rene ! " whispered his mother, for Mar- 
guerite was trembling visibly. 

/‘You do not understand," said the nun in a broken 
voice. “ It is not to add to His work, nor to win favor 
in His sight. I know better than that. It is His love 
that constrains me. I have done nothing for Him all 
my life, and there is nothing for me to do out here. 
I could at least tell them what the light has done for 
me ; if only one heard me before I was silenced, it 
would be worth dying for. I cannot help feeling that 
God has left me without the claims of other work, 
that I might’ be free to go back and bear my wit- 
ness." She had lifted her head, and was looking at 
him deprecatingly, but Rene’s cloudy brow did not 
clear. 

“ Have we no claims upon you ? " he asked reproach- 
fully. “ Is it nothing that my mother looks to you, 
and leans upon you as a daughter — that your love has 
poured a stream of sunshine upon a path that has 
known many a sorrow, and your lips speak to her a 
comfort no others can — nothing that your coming has 
been to us all like the dawn of a new day, that to look 
at you, and remember the darkness out of which you 
have been brought, is to understand the precious- 
ness of the truth, and the power of God’s grace, 
as we never did before ? It may look like a lowly 
vocation to you, in contrast with a martyr’s crown, 
but I cannot think it unnoticed in the sight of Him, 
who Himself came to ‘comfort all that mourn.’ To 
be a light in a dark place, a song in the night to three 
bruised and bleeding hearts, is that nothing. Mar- 
guerite ? " 


350 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


Marguerite’s eyes were fastened upon his mothers 
face. 

“ Is this so ? ” she asked. 

“ It would be the crowning sorrow of my life to give 
you up,” was the answer. 

Marguerite burst into tears. Oh, forgive me, for- 
give me ! I did not think it could matter to any one 
but me. How could I know I had come to be so much 
to you — how could I understand ? ” 

Eglantine drew her sister’s head to her shoulder. 
There was a sunny gleam on the dark lashes still glis- 
tening with tears. 

“ There is plenty of work for you,” she whispered, 
“ but for one most of all, my darling ; I told you that 
our mother said she hoped I would make up to her 
father for all he had missed in her, but I have been so 
full of myself, I knew so little of God, I have never 
done it. It must be your work. Marguerite ; you are 
so much better than I, you look so much like our 
mother, he will listen to you as he has never done to 
any one else. And you can tell him what the truth 
has done for you. Oh, my dear, I have felt from the 
first that this was to be your ministry. I believe God 
will bring you together some day.” 

“You will not have to be angry with me again,” 
Marguerite said presently, looking up at Rene. But 
Rene had gone. 

That night, as he sat a little apart in the shadow, a 
timid hand touched his arm. 

“You were displeased with me this morning — you 
thought it was very wicked to wish to go back to the 
convent?” said Marguerite’s low voice. 

“ I was disappointed,” was the grave answer. “ I 
am very jealous for your growth in grace, and I cannot 
Dear that any root of bitterness from the old life 


-''MANY WATERS. 


should spring up and trouble you. It pained me too, 
Marguerite, that you should find your life with us, 
hard as it has been, so easy to resign.” 

“ Ah, you do not know ! I could not let you know 
then,” she interposed quickly. “I have had to struggle 
with myself for days and days. Every time I thought 
I had made up my mind, the first touch of little Ga- 
brielle’s hand would take all my strength from me. I 
am ashamed I should have found it so hard to do any- 
thing that I felt was right.” 

“It was because it was not right that you found it 
so hard. If God had called you to the sacrifice. He 
would have given you the strength. Marguerite, 
promise me, once for all, that you will never again 
think of laying down your life.” 

“ Never, unless God asks for it in a way I cannot 
mistake,” she replied. “ Then, even you would not 
wish to hold me back.” 

“ Then — I will not hold you back,” he answered. 
But something in his face made Eglantine remember 
the night when he had led Agnes up to Fulcrand Rey. 

The next morning he startled them by proposing to 
make the little chalet their permanent resting-place. 

“ The search has evidently been abandoned,” he 
said, “and we have all lived too long without the sun- 
shine. The hut is too far removed from the road, too 
much hidden by the pines, to catch the eye of any 
passing travellers.” 

“ But provisions — how are we to obtain food ? ” 
asked Eglantine. 

Rene led her to the doorway and showed her 
through an opening in the trees the chimneys of a 
farm-house in the valley below. 

“ The inmates are brethren who have been forced to 
abjure, but are still attached to the truth,” he explained. 


352 


MO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“ I was there before daybreak this morning, Eglantine; 
they loaded me with all I could bring away, and will 
let us have provisions whenever we need — though they 
ask no questions for their own sakes.” 

“ That is well,” she answered joyfully, and when he 
came in that afternoon with a string of trout he had 
caught in the neighboring brook, he found a cheery 
fire blazing on the hearth, the evening meal set out on 
a rustic table which Eglantine and Marguerite had 
fashioned with their delicate hands, and little Gabrielle 
taking her first steps on the boarded floor. 

“ It is more like a home than anything we have 
known for a long time,” he said in a low voice. 

“Than anything I have ever known,” smiled Mar- 
guerite. There were no longer any clouds in her sky. 
More than once in the quiet days that followed, Ma- 
dame Chevalier, watching the fair happy face, won- 
dered whether Father Ambrose would recognize his 
old pupil even if he should meet her. The spring was 
now well advanced, and the milder weather added not 
a little to the increased comforts of their condition, 
but as yet there had come no opportunity of commu- 
nicating with M. Laval, and the secret hope which Eg- 
lantine had nursed through all their wanderings re- 
mained ungratified. 

At last, one May evening, Rene came to his foster- 
sister. 

“Jean is down at the brook. He has sought you of 
his own accord, and asks to speak with you alone. I 
hardly know whether you ought to go. Eglantine ; he 
has a strange look.” 

“ I have nothing to fear from Henri’s valet,” she an- 
swered, starting to her feet. A private interview with 
Jean was what she herself had hoped and planned for. 
Rene followed her to the edge of the wood. 


‘MANY WATERS," 


353 


“ I will be within call if you want me,” he whispered. 
“There is something in the poor fellow’s manner 
which makes me fear for his reason.” 

She scarcely heeded him as she hurried away, but 
the gaunt, emaciated figure that came forward to meet 
her, made her falter for a moment. Could this be 
Jean— stalwart, comely Jean ? 

“ Madame does not recognize me,” said the valet, 
pushing the gray locks from his brow and fixing his 
sunken eyes upon her. 

With a pitiful cry, Henri’s wife extended her hands. 
Jean raised them to his lips, but prevented the conso- 
lation that trembled upon her tongue. 

“ Do not speak to me of them, madame ! Do not 
allude to my trouble, if you would not have me go 
mad again ! I have come out of my prison with noth- 
ing but my religion and love for my master left. Only 
as my young sieur needs them, is there sense in my 
brain or strength in my right arm.” 

“ I knew that ; I felt sure I could depend on you ! ” 
cried Eglantine, laying her hand on his sleeve. “Jean, 
listen to me. You have loved him longer than I, more 
unselfishly ; you will help me to get a message to him ; 
will you not, Jean ? You were always so brave and 
clever. I want to ask his forgiveness, and to let him 
know that we are thinking of, and praying for him out 
here. Can you not think of some way ?” 

Jean regarded her with an unmoved countenance. 

“ I have seen him,” he said stolidly. 

“ Seen him — my husband ! ” Eglantine could scarce- 
ly tell whether it was her brain or Jean’s that was 
failing. 

“ Ay, seen him ! ” repeated the valet, fixing his eyes 
on the brook that babbled at their feet. “ Master 
Chevalier said to me : ‘ Jean^ he is alive ; he is in the 


354 


/lOlV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


fortress of Aigues-Mortes. If we could only let him 
know that his wife and child are with us ! ’ And then 
I knew what my work was to be.” 

“Jean !” exclaimed the wife once more, “have you 
actually obtained entrance to my husband’s prison, 
and had speech with him ? ” 

But the half-crazed man continued in the same mo- 
notonous tone, without taking any notice of the inter- 
ruption : 

“ And then I knew what my work was, why my 
miserable life had been spared. I will go, I said to 
myself ; I will do the one service that remains for my 
master, or I will perish in the attempt. My life is 
nothing that I should fear to lose it, and if I succeed, 
I will look into his face and hear his voice once more. 
So I went, and they told me he was not there.” 

“You asked at the fortress ? ” Eglantine was very 
quiet now. “That was very brave of you, Jean, but 
it was too great a risk. The police are still looking 
for you and Rene.” 

“I had nothing to lose,” returned Jean indifferently. 
“ They told me he was not there, so I saw I must wait 
the Lord’s pleasure to open the door, and I hired a 
boat and turned fisherman, and sold my fish at the 
fortress, and got acquainted with some of the keepers. 
I had thought I was going mad before that, but my 
cunning came back when my sieur needed it. At last 
I managed to worm out of them that he was indeed in 
the tower, but allowed to see no one — not even the 
turnkey, who thrust his food in through a hole in the 
wall.” 

A low moan escaped the wrung heart of his listener. 
Jean paused for a moment, and regarded his master’s 
wife with a look of dumb, dog-like affection ; then 
pnce more forgot her in his story. 


^UMANY waters:' 


355 


“ I was beginning to feel discouraged, when the 
little daughter of the head jailer fell into the canal ; 
she would have died if I had not jumped in after her, 
and the next day her father sent for me, and asked 
what he could do for me. I had been so steady at the 
fishing, none of them doubted that was not my real 
calling, and the cross I wore on my breast had satis- 
fied them about my religion. I told Master Neville I 
had no ambition, that I did not need money ; but I 
would risk my life over again to see my master, and 
give him tidings of his friends. He said it was im- 
possible, that his orders were very strict, and he would 
lose his place if he disobeyed. But when he found I 
would have nothing else, and I had sworn by all the 
saints in the calendar that I would not attempt his 
escape, he gave way. The little one was his only 
child, and he loved her as his own soul. So the next 
night, while the commandant was in the town at a 
supper, he let me in for an hour.” 

“You saw him? Oh, Jean! if I could only have 
known, and sent him a message.” 

Jean dropped his head despondingly. “ I beg your 
pardon, madame. I did not think of that until it was 
too late.” 

“ Never mind,” answered Eglantine, forcing back 
her tears. “ It is more than I deserve to hear from 
him. Tell me how he looked, and what he said.” 

“ I saw him only in the moonlight, madame. His 
brow is lined and his hair bleached, as though it had 
been twenty years since we met. But when he smiled, 
there was the same look in his eyes, as when we were 
lads together and I carried his arrows behind him on 
the hill.” 

“ Then he can smile ? ” 

“ Ay, madame, and talk like an angel, of the love of 


356 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


God, and the home up yonder. The fire in my heart 
cooled, and I could weep as I listened, as I have not 
been able to weep since the night I saw them lying 
there in each other’s blood. The only time he broke 
down was when I told him about Mistress Agnes, and 
how we had contrived to get you out of the chateau. 
M. Renau had told him that you were in a convent, 
and that the little one was dead. He made me tell him 
the story over and over, snatching at every word, as I 
have seen the starving wretches in the Flemish towns, 
after a long siege, snatch at bread. And when I told 
him that his lady had come to be the joy and strength 
of us all, and held the truth as dear as any, he em- 
braced me, his poor servant, and bade me tell Master 
Chevalier that he would bless him for it to his latest 
breath. He had neither pen nor paper, my lady, but 
he said I was to tell you he had thought of you and 
prayed for you night and day, and would love you to 
his dying hour. He said you were not to reproach 
yourself for the past, his had been the greater fault, 
and that you were not to grieve over his sufferings, 
for there had been One with him in the fire, and his 
joy no man had been able to take from him. And 
now they had ceased to torment him. God was very 
near, and he would soon be at rest, but he would wait 
your coming in a better world.” 

There was a long silence. The dusk deepened, the 
mountain brook sang on. Jean gazed absently down 
into the stream. At last the wife lifted her face. 

“ I must see him,” she said in a low, steady voice. 
“ If he is dying, it will make him happier to have. me 
smooth his pillow ; and if not, it will give him strength 
and courage to live. Oh, Jean, surely you will help 
me — for his sake, as well as mine.” 

The valet recoiled. 


“MANY WATERS. 


357 


“ I dare not, my lady ! He laid it on me as my last 
duty, that I should see you did not. ‘ She will want 
to come to me, Jean,’ he said, ‘ she will not think of 
her own safety if she feels there is anything she can 
do for me, but she must not be allowed to take the 
risk. Tell her I lay it on her as my last request, my 
last command, to remain with Madame Chevalier, and, 
for the sake of our little daughter, if our friends ever 
decide to leave France, to go with them.’ ” 

It was a sharp test for Eglantine’s purer and better 
love for her husband. The “ obedience ” that “ is bet- 
ter than sacrifice,” is sometimes so much harder to 
render, but after a moment’s struggle the wife put 
herself out of the question. 

“Do you go back again, Jean? Will there be any 
way of finding out when the end comes ? ” 

“ I go back certainly, rr^ lady. The jailer has prom- 
ised to let me know when my master’s sufferings cease.” 

“And meanwhile, if he should not be as sick as he 
thinks, if there should come some way of serving him, 
which he could not foresee, when he asked that prom- 
ise — you will let me know, Jean? I will never disobey 
him for my own sake, but ever since Rene and Mar- 
guerite have been given back to us, I have been trying 
to plan some way for his escape.” 

“ Escape ! ” echoed Jean, his eyes glowing suddenly 
through .the dusk. “ God forgive me, madame, but I 
never thought of that before. Ah, that would indeed 
be to know one moment of happiness again before I 
die.” And without waiting for reply, Jean broke away 
from his master’s wife and disappeared in the wood. 

Eglantine watched anxiously for his return, for days 
after, but the valet came no more 


CHAPTER XXI. 


THE LAST TIE. 

M idsummer brought a letter from Pepin, post- 
marked Southampton. It had been sent under 
cover to a trusty friend in Nismes, and had passed 
through many hands in the hills before reaching its 
destination. But it brought the joyful tidings that 
the weaver and his family had eluded the vigilance of 
the coast-guard and were safe in an English home. 
Pepin wrote enthusiastically of the fine situation that 
had been at once offered him, and the joy he and 
Aimee experienced in waiting upon the unrestricted 
services of the Word, and teaching the blessed truths 
to their children without fear or hindrance. The let- 
ter concluded with an earnest entreaty to his friends 
to follow their example. 

Rene looked at his mother. 

“ ‘ If they persecute you in one city, flee ye to an- 
other,’ ” she answered sadly. “You can no longer 
practice your profession here, my son. There may be 
work waiting you among your exiled brethren.” 

“ And Marguerite ? ” 

Mignonnette de Bertrand laid her soft cheek on Ma- 
dame Chevalier’s shoulder. 

“ ‘ Where thou goest, I will go,’ ” she said softly. 

“ Eglantine ? ” 

But the dark eyes of Henri’s wife filled with tears. 

“ Might we not wait a little longer ? ” she pleaded. 
(358) 


THE LAST TIE. 


359 

“ I cannot refuse to go with you ; yet, while Henri 
lives, my heart is in France.” 

Then we will let the matter rest for the present,” 
decided Rene. “ It is the last resource, and I confess 
while there is an atom of hope that things may 
brighten here, my duty is not clear.” 

But though the subject was dropped, the possibility 
of such an alternative in the future was now fairly be- 
fore them all. 

The second anniversary of Eglantine’s wedding had 
passed, without bringing any tidings from Aigues- 
Mortes, and the first frosts of October had touched 
the woods with gold, when Fulcrand Rey one evening 
entered the little hut. More than once, in his jour- 
neys to and fro, the young minister had found it con- 
venient to tarry a night with his friends, but this time 
he came charged with a heavy errand. The blow 
which the Huguenot subjects of Louis XIV. had long 
had reason to dread had at last fallen. The noble 
bulwark, which the genius and policy of Henry the 
Great had raised ninety years before, and against 
which the fury and craft of Rome had long been beat- 
ing like a flood, was now swept away with one stroke 
of a pen. The Edict of Nantes had been revoked, and 
the Protestants of France had no longer the right to 
exist. 

The king pierced the dyke on his coronation, when 
he refused to receive the deputation of our minister,” 
said the Cevanol pastor sorrowfully. “ It has been 
only a question of time ever since, yet while the name 
of their liberties was left, the Huguenots of France 
have clung to the delusion of the clemency of their 
king.” 

“ And now ? ” asked Monique Chevalier. 

“ Now, I believe, in spite of the increased penalties 


36 o 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


attached to emigration, hundreds will at once leave 
France. The looms of England and Holland await 
our artisans, the shores of the new world invite our 
emigrants. The truth will spring up on other soil, 
but for us there has come a long night.'*’ 

“ Then you will not leave France ? ” said Rene. 

I am not sent but to the lost sheep of the Ceven- 
nes,” was the quiet answer. “ For their sakes, I stand 
‘ready to be offered.’” And when he parted from 
them the next morning, something told them they 
would see his face on earth no more. 

Eglantine laid her hand on Rene’s arm, as he stood 
gazing sadly after his friend. 

“ Is your duty clear now, Rene ? ” 

He was silent. 

“ Our existence has sunk to a mere battle for bread, 
and it will be worse as the winter comes on. We can 
no longer worship God even in secret, and the revo- 
cation has taken away all hope of remedy. Great as 
are the risks of emigration, they cannot be greater 
•han the perils that confront us here.” 

“ I will never leave France without you. Eglantine.” 

“And you will not ask me to go, while my heart 
says stay ; that is like you, Rene, but I am not so 
selfish as to exact the sacrifice. I will write to my 
grandfather to-day, and if your friends in the farm- 
house will speed the letter on its way, I feel sure he 
will devise some plan to aid us.” 

The rare tears stood in Rene’s eyes. 

“You are doing this for our sake. Eglantine.” 

“For yours, and my child’s; but for Christ’s too, 
Rene. I have no right to entomb here the life He has 
given back to me, and for which He may yet have use.” 

“ If you see it in that light, I dare not refuse the 
sacrifice.,” he answered in a low voice. “ Eglantine, 


THE LAST TIE. 361 

your prayers can reach Henri as well there as here, 
and you have lifted a sore weight from my heart.” 

She looked tenderly into his face. “ May I speak to 
you freely, Rene ? ” 

“ As freely as to your own soul, my sister.” 

“You love Marguerite.” 

A tremor ran through the strong man’s frame. 

“How could I help it?” he asked. “ Has she not 
been to me like light in darkness, and rest in pain ? 
It is not the joy of my first youth, Eglantine, but the 
peace of a sorrow God has comforted.” 

“ And that is something deeper and better ! Oh, 
Rene, I have loved Marguerite a hundred times more, 
since I saw it was in her power to make up to you for 
all you suffered through me. Yet you have not spoken 
to her.” 

“I must not. It would be an unfair advantage for 
me to take in my position, and her grandfather might 
well resent it. If we ever reach a happier land, and I 
have a home of my own to offer her, it will be time 
enough to speak. Then, she will have learned to ap- 
preciate her own social position, and be able intelli- 
gently to choose between what her grandfather can 
do for her, and the most I will be able to offer. These 
are not days for marrying or giving in marriage.” 

“ Nor are they days in which to keep silence toward 
each other,” urged the younger sister warmly. “ Rene, 
who knows but that at any moment death might 
come between you ? Marguerite might go hungry all 
her life for the words you might have spoken, or you 
be left vainly to repent that you did not tell her what 
she was to you, before it was too late. As to our 
grandfather, it would ill become him to withhold, what 
he would never have had, but for you and Agnes.” 

“ Do not tempt me,” interposed Rene hurriedly. 


362 


NO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“ My mother feels that I am right. Even were I free to 
speak to Marguerite, I would not dare to do it yet. 
She is sweet and gentle with me, as she is with you 
all, but I cannot misunderstand her manner. She 
looks upon life as a child, or an angel, might. I would 
only pain her, if I spoke to her about love.” 

“ Marguerite is neither a child nor an angel,” re- 
torted Eglantine, with a sudden gleam of her old arch- 
ness, fringed with tears. But she was wise enough to 
say no more. Only from that hour she urged on the 
preparations for their departure with ardent, self-for- 
getful zeal. 

Her grandfather’s reply had been prompt and to 
the point. He had lately established a branch office 
in London, and was about to despatch a clerk by a 
schooner then in port at Agde. If Rene thought he 
could personate the man — who was about his height, 
though beyond middle age — Madame Chevalier and 
Eglantine might take the place of his wife and daugh- 
ter, for whom passports had been also obtained, and 
Marguerite pass for their maid. There was no provi- 
sion for a child, but the little one, M. Laval thought, 
could be smuggled on board without much difficulty. 
He would have to keep quiet in the matter himself, 
for fear of arousing suspicion. It was possible he 
might not be even able to see them before their de- 
parture, but the captain of the schooner was in hearty 
sympathy, and he had written to his London agent to 
meet them at Southampton, and provide them with all 
necessary funds. There was little danger, he thought, 
of the ruse being detected by the officer who would 
examine their papers, as the clerk and his family were 
strangers in Agde. At any rate the plan presented 
fewer difficulties than an attempt to elude the coast- 
guard by a secret embarkation. 


THE LAST TIE. 


363 


“ It is a far safer one than anything I had been able 
to think of,” said Rene joyfully, and the day after 
the letter was read, the little chalet was abandoned, 
and they were on their way to the coast. Partly on 
foot and partly in a wagon, furnished by secret friends 
for the latter part of the journey, the refugees suc- 
ceeded in reaching a fishing hamlet near Agde three 
days before the schooner sailed. The host of the 
little seaside auberge proved to be a Huguenot, who 
gladly undertook to give the ladies shelter and pro- 
tection, while the doctor went alone into the city to 
complete the arrangements for their departure. As it 
was possible Rene might not have been able to find 
the English captain at once, Eglantine and her aunt 
tried not to be anxious when night closed in before 
his return. But when the long hours of darkness had 
worn away and another day dawned without his ar- 
rival, they could no longer meet each other’s eyes, and 
by noon Henri La Roche’s wife had whispered a 
piteous entreaty into their landlord’s ear that he would 
send into Agde and make inquiries. In two hours the 
messenger was back with the tidings they most feared. 
M. Chevalier had been recognized by a party of dra- 
goons on his way home the night before. He had re- 
fused to surrender at their summons, and the last seen 
of them they were in hot pursuit, with levelled car- 
bines, while he was only a few yards ahead. There 
could be no doubt of the result, though the soldiers 
had not returned to Agde with their captive. They 
must either have overtaken him or shot him down. 
Master Blanc ended his sorrowful story with an earn- 
est entreaty to his friends not to feel themselves for- 
saken, as he would himself see them on board the 
schooner the next night, but they scarcely heard him. 
The blow had come with two-edged sharpness at this 


364 ^OlV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


moment, when they were in sight of safety and free- 
dom. Even the mother’s courage, trained in so long 
a school, gave way. 

“ It is His hand, but it presses me sore,” she 
moaned. 

Eglantine threw her arms about her neck. 

“ Perhaps it is only a rumor. Do not lose heart 
yet,” she whispered ; but the hope had no root in her 
heart, and died in a sob upon her lips. 

Marguerite stood aloof, watching them wistfully. 
Monique Chevalier suddenly remembered her, and 
held out her hand. 

“ We do not shut you out of our grief, my child. 
You have a right to weep with us,” she said. 

Marguerite caught the outstretched hands to her 
breast and covered them with kisses, but she did not 
speak. Through those long hours of waiting she had 
been strangely quiet ; now there was a still joy shin- 
ing in her eyes, which perplexed Eglantine. Was it 
possible that she had been mistaken in thinking that 
her sister’s heart had been opening to Rene’s deep, 
though unspoken love ? or could it be that Marguerite 
held the honor of martyrdom so high, that she could 
rejoice in it even for the man she loved ? If so, her 
convent rearing had indeed unfitted her for the com- 
mon joys and sorrows of life, and with the first chill 
that had ever fallen on her warm love for her sister. 
Eglantine turned back to her aunt and let Marguerite 
undress little Gabrielle and sing her to sleep. 

She wondered at her own blindness the next morn- 
ing, when she woke to find Marguerite’s bed empty, 
and a note to Madame Chevalier lying on the table. 

“ Be comforted ! ” had written the trembling, girl- 
ish hand. “ God has at last put it into my power to 
repay what 1 owe to you for Agnes. By to-night M. 


THE LAST TIE. 


365 

Chevalier will be returned to you. He must not blame 
me for doing what he would have done for any one, 
and my grandfather cannot resent the exchange, 
which gives a protector to you and Eglantine. I go 
gladly. Marguerite.” 

“ Then she does love him ! ” exclaimed Eglantine, 
when she was able to speak. 

The paper slipped from the mother’s nerveless 
hand. 

“ She thinks to purchase his liberty with her own, 
poor child ! But she cannot succeed ; she will only 
ruin herself, and I will lose them both. Quick, Eg- 
lantine ! my hood and mantle. The sacrifice, even if 
it could avail, cannot be permitted.” 

Eglantine laid her hand upon her arm. 

‘‘ There are steps and voices in the corridor. Can 
she have returned ? ” she whispered. 

The door opened, and Rene stood before them. 

“ My son ! ” exclaimed his mother in a thrilling tone. 

“ Have you been anxious about me ? ” he asked, 
hurrying up to her. I have had a narrow escape, 
but I hoped the tidings would not reach you before I 
did.” He stopped abruptly, struck by the expression 
of her face. “ What is wrong — where is Marguerite ? ” 
he asked, glancing round. 

She could not answer him, but Eglantine, who had 
picked up the note from the floor, put it into his hand. 
His quick eye grasped the contents in a second ; the 
next he had turned to the door. 

“ What road did she take ? How long has she been 
gone ? ” he asked in a voice hardly recognizable. 

“ We knew nothing until we found the letter a few 
moments ago. Oh, Rene, where are you going ? What 
can you do ? ” 


366 1^0 IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


** Do ! I will bring her back, or perish in the at- 
tempt.” He was gone the next minute. 

Master Blanc stopped him in the court. 

“ You must take my horse, doctor ; you will save 
time by waiting for it.” And as Rene followed him 
to the stable — “ She has taken my eldest lad with her 
to show her the way to Nismes, and Percy, the little 
one, says they set out this morning by daybreak. He 
says he heard mademoiselle tell his brother last night 
that she could save M. Chevalier, if he would help 
her and not say anything, and the children are so fond 
of you, doctor, they never dreamed what the poor 
young lady had in her head. There’s the nag ! I wish 
she was a faster one, but at least she can travel three 
times as fast as mademoiselle’s little feet.” 

The young surgeon gripped his good friend’s hand. 

“If I do not come back, see that my mother and sis- 
ter leave on the schooner to-night,” he entreated, and 
leaping into the saddle, galloped away. To his dying 
day, he never forgot that ride. 

The sun was just visible above the horizon, sending 
ripples of rosy light across the plain ; the freshness of 
early morning was in the air. There were no passers 
on the road, and the peasants at work in the fields only 
looked up in dull surprise as he dashed past them. If 
Marguerite had attempted to make the journey on 
foot, and his pursuit was not interrupted, he must 
overtake her before she had gone many miles. But 
the hope of intercepting the sacrifice could not efface 
the fact that she had been willing to make it — that she 
had “gone gladly” to die for him. And a tumult of 
pain and sweetness filled Rene Chevalier’s breast. 

“My darling!” he sobbed once under his breath. 
It was the only time he spoke. 

He had passed the tenth mile-stone, and was in sight 


THE LAST TIE. 


367 


of a blacksmith’s forge, where a couple of dragoons had 
just drawn rein, when he caught sight of two figures 
under a wide-spreading chestnut-tree just ahead of 
him. The woman was seated upon the ground, evi- 
dently in weariness, while she pleaded earnestly with 
a lad who stood irresolute before her. The boy’s face 
was toward Rene, who at once recognized his land- 
lord’s son. A moment more, and he had leaped from 
his horse and was standing beside them. 

Marguerite ! ” he said, laying his hand upon his 
friend’s arm. 

She looked up, trembling. 

“ You — here ? ” she gasped. 

“ It was a false report about my arrest ; I reached the 
inn just as my mother and Eglantine found your note. 
Marguerite, did you think I could accept such a sacri- 
fice?” 

‘‘You would not have known — I did not mean you to 
know — until it was done,” she faltered. But the color had 
rushed to her face, and she did not lift her eyes. The 
step, which had seemed so simple, so natural, that morn- 
ing, had suddenly become very difficult of explanation. 

Rene turned to the lad. 

“ Michael, you ought to have known better. The 
authorities never exchange, and mademoiselle would 
only have imperilled herself.” 

“That’s just what I was a-telling her just now, sir. 
She never let me know till a little while ago what her 
plan was, and I said right away it would be no use, or 
if it would, I was afeard you would be angry with me, 
and she was a-begging of me not to be obstinate, when 
you rode up.” 

“ That is true; Michael is not at all to blame,” added 
Marguerite, rising hurriedly. “ I suppose I have been 
very foolish, though it did not seem so then ! Do not 


368 HO IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


let us say anything more about it — only take me 
home.” Her voice was stricken with tears. 

Rene drew her deeper into the shadow of the tree, 
while Michael darted after the horse, which had sud- 
denly sprung away. 

“ Do you suppose I can ever forget that you were 
willing to lay down your life for me ? ” asked Agnes 
Chevalier’s brother in a shaken voice. “ Marguerite ! 
if you knew the sweetness that has blended with the 
anguish of that thought, through all this sorrowful 
journey, you would not try to take it from me. Do 
you remember the day when you wanted to go back 
to the convent — how pained I was, and how I made 
you promise never to think of it again ? Did it never 
dawn on you why I was more deeply wounded than 
the rest? Your proposition showed me in a flash what 
you had grown to be to me. I thought I had put for- 
ever out of my life any love like that. I woke to find 
myself resting in you, rejoicing over you, as I had 
never done over her whom I first hoped to make my 
wife. Do not turn away from me now, my love, for 
from that hour I have felt that God meant us for each 
other. But I have tried to be patient. I said to my- 
self : ‘ She has dwelt like one apart, she has never 
thought of marriage like other women, she will be 
frightened if I speak to her of love ; I must wait until 
she has seen more of the world, and the sweetness and 
blessedness of other lives that God has joined together.’ 
And yesterday, when I was fleeing from the dragoons, 
and thought I would never see your face again, I told 
myself it was well : I had done right not to draw your 
heart to mine, not to link your young life with one de- 
voted to sorrow and misery. ‘ She will be happy with 
some one else,’ I thought, ‘and when I meet her in 
heaven I can tell her all.’ ” 


THE LAST TIE. 


369 

A sudden tremor shook the hand that Rene held. 

I did not know — I did not understand,” faltered 
Marguerite, and her voice told him she was weeping. 
“ I never thought of such a thing, any more than if I 
was still in the convent, or we were all in heaven. You 
were Agnes’ brother, and we both loved the Master. 
Was not that enough ? ” 

It was Rene’s hand that quivered now. Could he have 
been mistaken, after all ? Had this generous act of devo- 
tion been prompted only by simple sisterly affection? 
He could see nothing of the averted face but a tear- 
wet cheek, in which the troubled color came and went. 

“Marguerite,” he said, and something in his voice 
made Marguerite forget herself, and look up at him 
anxiously, “ we have dwelt too long together in the 
shadow of death, we stand too much in jeopardy this 
very hour, not to be true with each other. When I 
read your note this morning I could not help believ- 
ing that God had given me the desire of my heart. 
^Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay 
down his life for his friends’; and you had gone glad- 
ly to lay down yours for me. I reproached myself 
that I had not spoken sooner, that you might have 
known that to take care of yourself was the truest way 
to serve me. But if I have made a mistake, do not 
let my words trouble you. Only tell me so, and I will 
put the presumptuous hope out of my breast, and you 
shall be my dear sister as before.” 

He paused, and waited. Marguerite’s eyes were once 
more upon the ground. 

“You were in danger, and I thought I could save 
you,” she said in a low voice. “ I could have gone 
away, and never heard your voice again, if I could 
have set you free. How could I understand what that 
meant ? I never knew what I had done until ” 


370 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“Until when? Oh, my darling ! are you afraid to 
trust me ? ” 

“Until I saw you just now,” she answered, a tide of 
rosy color mounting to her brow, as her grave, sweet 
eyes at last met his. “No, I am not afraid to trust 
you, Rene. I can trust you with my whole soul ! ” 

But the next moment, the happy blush had faded, 
and she was clinging to him, white with terror, as 
the soldiers, whom he had seen at the forge above, 
galloped past, with their carbines gleaming in the 
sun. 

“ If they had seen you it would have been my fault,” 
she breathed. 

“ If they had met you this morning it would have 
been' mine,” he returned. “ Do not tremble. Mar- 
guerite. I knew they were there, and that we were 
safer under the trees until they passed. I will take 
you at once now to my mother.” 

A farmer’s wagon was creeping by along the road. 
Rene whispered a word in the ear of the simple-look- 
ing country lad who was driving the oxen, lifted Mar- 
guerite in among the fresh green vegetables, and 
sprang in after her. 

“You may ride on and tell them we are coming. I 
will not leave mademoiselle,” he said to Michael, who 
came up, breathless, with the runaway steed, and while 
the boy trotted off, overjoyed at the permission, he 
and Marguerite, in the shadow of the old wagon, fol- 
lowed more slowly, talking hand in hand of the way 
God had led them. 

On the brow of a hill, two miles nearer the sea, Rene 
drew aside the curtains, and showed his companion a 
dark spot on the eastern horizon. 

“ It is the tower of Aigues-Mortes,” he said under 
his breath, and, as her soft eyes filled with tears, “ I 


THE LAST TIE. 


37 


was there yesterday. Yes ; it was a risk, my darling, 
but I could not leave France without seeking the last 
tidings for Eglantine, and giving Henri’s faithful ser- 
vant an opportunity to accompany us. But Jean will 
not leave the country while his master lives.” 

“ Then he does still live ? ” 

“ Yes ; he has been nigh unto death, but has rallied 
again : his constitution is naturally so hardy. Jean 
has seen him once more, and says he is still calm and 
joyful at the prospect of death, and firm in his com- 
mand for his wife to seize the first opportunity to leave 
France. The Abbe Bertrand, your cousin and hers. 
Marguerite, has lately been appointed chaplain of the 
tower, and shows him many kindnesses, but it would 
have made it easier for Eglantine if he could have 
been at rest before we went.” 

But when he said as much to Eglantine herself an 
hour later, Henri La Roche’s wife shook her head, 
while her tender lips vibrated with sudden pain. 

“ I am afraid you will think my faith very weak, or 
my love very selfish, Rene ; but I cannot see it so. I 
know all you would say to me about the blessedness 
of that other life, but still, when I think I may hear 
that he is dead, my soul seems to dissolve with dread 
— nothing is so irremediable as that. While I can 
pray for him, and he for me, it will be easier to live, 
even at the ends of the earth.” 

Thank God you feel so, since he does live,” was all 
Rene could say. 

Eglantine brus’hed away her tears. No drop from 
her own bitter cup should mar the sweetness that had 
at last been poured out for him. 

“ You have spoken to Marguerite, Rene ? ” 

“ How could I keep silence — after this morning?” 

“And I was right — she will make you happy? ” 


372 


I/O IV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


His grave, shining eyes sought the other side of the 
room, where Marguerite sat beside his mother. 

“ She has promised to be my wife ; God has given 
her to me,” he said. 

Eglantine drew a letter from her pocket. 

“ It is from my grandfather,” she said, as she put 
it into his hand. “Ah, I thought you would be sur- 
prised, Rene, but we have each had our little secret. 

I wrote and told him that you cared for Marguerite, 
and I believed she did for you, but that you would not 
speak without his permission, and I asked, in return 
for all you had done for me, that I might have the 
pleasure of giving my sister to you myself. No, do 
not thank me. It has been a selfish pleasure after all, 
and little in comparison with what I owe. There is 
his answer. He grumbles .a little at being asked to 
resign what he has never been able to enjoy, but I can 
see he is secretly relieved. He is sensible enough to 
know he could never have had her with him here, and 
he will take care that she does not come to you a 
penniless bride. Oh, I know you do not care for that, 
Rene. She is a dowry in herself, but it will be a com- 
fort to Marguerite and me, and you cannot refuse to 
accept it at her hands. My brother, I can ask nothing 
more for you than that God will give back to you in 
her, all that you have done for us.” 

“ You have done that a hundred times already. Eg- 
lantine. You are yourself my exceeding great re- 
ward,” he answered warmly, and then as Henri’s 
baby-daughter toddled to them, laughing, across the 
floor, he lifted his pet in his arms, and bade her 
mother come and see the basket-cradle, in which the 
little one was to make her secret journey on board 
that night. 

Ten hours later, when the moon rose round and 


THE LAST TIE. 


373 

golden out of the purple sea, they were on the deck 
of the English schooner, moorings loosened, sails 
spread. The last danger was passed. Little Gabri- 
elle slept upon her mother’s breast. Marguerite knelt 
with her head on her sister’s shoulder, Madame Che- 
valier and her son stood hand in hand. All eyes were 
fixed upon the shore they would never tread again. 
Thanksgiving for the freedom hardly won mingled 
in every breast with a prophetic wave of the home- 
sickness that would more than once steal over them 
in the days to come. The promise of free altars on 
another shore could not blind their hearts to the fact 
that the truth, for which they had toiled and suffered, 
was being banished from the land they loved. No 
one spoke as the pearly light deepened in the sky, and 
the silhouettes of the distant hills and the outlines of 
the receding coast became plainly visible. Thoughts 
of the ruined temple on the slope of the Cevennes, 
the turret-room in the old chateau, and the unknown 
grave in the convent of St. Veronique came and went 
with visions of the “ better country,” and glimpses of 
that love which is the dwelling-place of hunted hearts 
throughout all generations. 

It was Rene who at last broke the silence, laying 
his hand on the head of Eglantine’s sleeping child. 

‘‘At least we will be able to teach her the truth, 
without fear,” he said tenderly ; “she will never know 
what we have passed through,” and with the words a 
tender curtain fell upon the past, and a door of hope 
opened into the future, through which they could gaze 
without tears. 

But when Rene would have persuaded her to go 
below, with his mother and Marguerite, Henri’s wife 
shook her head. 

“While we are in sight of the French coast, I cam 


374 


HO IV THEY HEFT THE FAITH 


not close my eyes. Be patient with me a little longer,” 
she pleaded. 

“ I have no heart to say you no,” he answered. 

But give my mother the child. The night air is cool 
for her.” 

She obeyed, and scarcely seemed to notice when he 
returned, and wrapping a large cloak about her, re- 
sumed his watch at her side. The boat was being put 
about in the stream, opposite a small cove, and there 
was no little confusion as the great hawsers were 
dragged to and fro. The loud aye ayes of the English 
sailors rang out in answer to the sharp, unintelligible 
commands of the mate. 

“We are to anchor here until after the moon sets,” 
explained Rene. “ It is a little out of our course, but 
the captain has promised to wait for a boat-load of 
refugees, who are trying to elude the coast-guard. 
When you hear the report of a carbine, Eglantine, the 
lights will be hung out on the side of the ship ; then 
look out for the boat.” 

“ I wonder if they are leaving as much of their hearts 
behind them, as I am ? ” she sighed, but, as he had 
hoped, the thought of others still in peril proved a 
partial diversion from her own grief, and he was not 
surprised when the paling moon had sunk at last into 
the sea, that her ear was the first to catch the sound of 
the report. 

“ There it is, Rene ! The lights gleam across the wa- 
ter, and see ! some dark object puts out from the shore; 
it is moving through the water ; it is a boat.” 

“ Yes, it is a boat,” he answered, rising too, and lean- 
ing eagerly over the railing. “And the tide sei*ves. 
Eglantine ; they will not be long in reaching us.” 

It was a still night, and they could soon hear the 
plash of oars. The captain’s trumpet rang out across 


THE LAST TIE, 


375 


the water ; there was an answering hail from one of 
the rowers. Then the boat ran alongside, and a rope 
was thrown out. 

Eglantine looked up to speak to Rene, and found her- 
self alone. Whence came the impulse that prompted 
her, she could never explain. There are some intu- 
itions too fine for sense, too subtle for reason. With- 
out a moment’s hesitation, she gathered her cloak 
about her and hurried forward. All was darkness, 
save where two swaying lanterns showed a knot of 
sailors leaning over the gunwale, gesticulating earn- 
estly. She could understand nothing of their strange 
speech and Rene was nowhere to be seen. She stood by, 
troubled and uncertain, until the good-natured mate 
caught sight of her, and contrived in broken French to 
make her understand that there was a sick man in the 
boat, whom they would have to draw up with a rope. 

As he spoke, there was a call from below ; 

“ Ready now, my men. Steady — pull slowly.” 

Was that Rene’s voice? Eglantine laid her hand 
upon her heart, and tried to still its tumultuous beat- 
ing. Slowly and carefully the mariners drew up their 
living burden ; there was a glad cheer, as the tall fig- 
ure, wrapped in a blanket, at last came in sight. 
Hands were instantly ready to lift the sick man over the 
railing, and lay him gentle upon a piece of tarpaulin 
spread upon the deck. The light of the lanterns fell 
upon a white, ghastly face ; the dark eyes glowing in 
their sunken sockets alone spoke of life. But with a cry 
those who heard never forgot, a cry that rang out above 
the rattling sail and creaking cordage. Eglantine La 
Roche darted forward and fell on her knees beside 
the canvas. 

“ Henri ! Henri ! ” she sobbed, and laid her head in 
its old place upon his heart. 


376 /^OlV THEY KEPT THE FAITB. 


A look of unutterable content settled upon the wan 
face. The sick man feebly moved his hand and laid it 
upon the drooping head : then lifted his eyes heaven- 
ward. 

“ My God, I thank Thee ! ” he said in a faint voice 
that still had in it something of the music that had 
stirred the child’s heart beside the old Cevanol 
hearth. 

“Amen ! ” said Rene’s glad voice beside them. 

Eglantine looked up, her face positively dazzling 
with light ; every teardrop turned into a jewel. 

“ Is this your doing too, Rene ? ” 

“I knew nothing until I recognized Jean’s voice in 
the hail just now.” 

The wife turned her full eyes upon the gray-haired 
valet kneeling at his master’s side. 

“ Then we owe it to you, Jean ? ” 

“I never thought of it until you put it into my head, 
madame.” 

Henri smiled, and taking the strong hand of his 
faithful servant, laid it in the soft palm of his wife’s. 

“ Thank him for me, ma mie ! 1 had lost all hope of 

life and freedom here — I thought only of meeting you 
in a better world ; it was he who roused me from my 
lethargy, he who told me of your love and sorrow, until 
the blood leaped once more in my veins, and I was 
ready to do and dare. Then he made me change 
clothing with him, and leave the fortress in his place, 
while at the risk of his life he stayed behind in mine, 
and only saved himself by a leap from the window 
that night.” 

Madame Chevalier and Marguerite stood beside 
them. Eglantine took her sleeping child from her 
sister’s breast and laid the little one in the arms of 
the childless man. 


THE LAST TIE. 


377 


“ From to-night, she is yours as well as ours ; her 
lips shall thank you,” she said tremulously, and as if 
in ratification of the tender compact, the baby girl 
stirred in her sleep and touched Jean’s bronzed cheek 
with her dimpled hand. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


WINKLE STREET, SOUTHAMPTON. 

N a pleasant spring morning, in the year 1687, a 



KJ traveller, who had just landed at the South- 
ampton pier, stopped opposite the old hospital of St. 
Julian, Winkle Street, and gazed up long and earnestly 
at the inscription over the doorway of the ancient 
chapel : “ Domus Dei.” 

The building had been originally endowed by Henry 
III., for the benefit of pilgrims, but at the command 
of Elizabeth, a century before, the chapel had been 
set apart as a place of worship for French emigrants 
driven by persecution from their own land. There, in 
the heart of a strange people, amid the clash of con- 
tending faiths, the exiles had ever since been permit- 
ted unmolested to hear the Word of God in their own 
tongue and according to their own creed. 

As the stranger looked wistfully over at the vener- 
able structure, a woman’s voice, at a window in the 
house behind him, suddenly took up Madame Guyon’s 
beautiful hymn : 


“ Oh, Thou, by long experience tried. 
Near whom, no grief can long abide. 
My Lord, how full of sweet content 
I pass my years of banishment.” 


The voice of the singer was silvery and low, but 
sweeter still to the listener’s ear the sound of the 
French tongue in the English port. The dark-browed 
chapel and ancient hospital vanished. Before his 


(378) 


WINKLE STREET, SOUTHAMPTON, 379 

eyes, rose a vision of vine-clad hills and soft blue south- 
ern skies, and as if in God-sent comfort to the longing 
that swept his breast, the singer at the window went 
on : 

“ While place we seek, or place we shun, 

The soul finds happiness in none : 

But with my God to guide my way, 

’Tis equal joy to go or stay. 

“ All scenes alike engaging prove. 

To souls impressed with sacred love : 

Where’er they dwell, they dwell in Thee, 

In heaven, in earth, or on the sea.” 

There was a moment’s pause. The exile had drawn 
back under the shadow of the window ; the “ Domus 
Dei ” swam before his eyes in a mist of tears. The 
singer spoke to some one at her side, and a man’s rich 
tenor blended with her silvery soprano in the con- 
cluding strain : 

“For me remains nor place nor time, 

My country is in every clime : 

My heart is glad, and free from care. 

On any shore, since God is there.” 

The stranger stepped forward to lay his hand on 
the knocker. Before he could do so, the door opened, 
and a gray-haired man, leading a little child by the 
hand, came out. 

“Will you take me to see the ships, Jean?” 

“ If you like, my mademoiselle.” 

“And tell me about your own country, and how you 
helped to get me out of the chateau when I was a 
baby?” 

“ If it pleases you, my heart’s-ease ! ” 

“Godfrey isn’t old enough to understand yet, is he, 
Jean?” . 

The man did not answer. He had caught sight of 


38 o 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


the figure before him, and was staring, as though he 
had seen a ghost at midday. 

M. I’Abbe ! ” 

“ Nay, I have left that name behind me ; — M. Ber- 
trand, a French gentleman, who wears no longer the 
livery of a Church stained with blood.” 

The Cevanol’s eyes sparkled. “ Is it indeed so ? 
Then the day we have long hoped and prayed for has 
come — as my master has always maintained that it 
would. Run, little one, and tell thy mother that a 
friend from France has come. Enter, monsieur. My 
master and mistress will be more than glad to see 
you.” 

“ I need not ask if they are well and happy ; I heard 
them singing at the window just now.” 

My master will never be a well man again, sir,” — a 
slight shadow fell upon Jean’s face ; “but he suffers 
less now than in the cold weather. As for my lady — 
there is not a lighter foot, or a merrier heart, in all 
the town than hers. She has never gone to the bot- 
tom of the joy of having my lord back again. It seems 
new to her every morning.” 

“ And that rosy little Hebe, who has flown to an- 
nounce my coming, can she be the babe whose hold 
upon life seemed so frail ? ” 

“ That is my young Mademoiselle Gabrielle, sir — a 
taut little craft, in spite of the rough weather she has 
seen. But, thank God ! the baby lad, who came to 
us this New-Year’s, and is the very light of his moth- 
er’s eyes, will not have such seas to stem.” 

Jean opened the door of a sunny sitting-room that 
looked out upon the sea. There was an invalid-chair 
near the window, with a child’s toy on the floor be- 
side it. 

“ My master is often kept indoors for weeks ^t a 


WINKLE STREET, SOUTHAMPTON. 381 

time ; he likes to be where he can see the water, and 
hear the singing in the church over the way,” the 
valet explained. 

A cradle stood beside the spinning-wheel, on the 
other side of the hearth ; there was a bowl of mari- 
golds on the table hear an open French Bible ; over 
the mantel hung a pretty water-colored sketch of the 
harbor of La P..ochelle. Louis Bertrand had a mo- 
ment in which to take in the sweet, homely details, 
before the inner door opened, and Henri entered, 
leaning upon his wife’s shoulder. 

The erect carriage, the elastic limb of the soldier 
had gone forever, but in their place had come a nobler 
strength. An expression of quiet happiness shone 
from under the serene brow, and the lines of patient 
suffering about the lips bore witness to that grandest 
of all achievements — the ruling of one’s own spirit, 
the fight, after all, in which it is not we who win, but 
“ God, that giveth us the victory.” 

There was all of Henri’s old heartiness in his clasp 
of his kinsman’s hand. 

“ Welcome to our English home, Louis ! Eglantine 
and I were speaking of you only this morning. How 
long have you been here, and how did you find us 
out ? ” 

“ I landed an hour ago. I had no idea where to 
look for you, but as I strolled up the street, the old 
^ God’s house ’ opposite attracted me, and then I heard 
Eglantine singing.” 

Louis Bertrand had taken his kinswoman’s hand 
once more in his, and was looking wistfully into her 
clear, dark eyes. It was the first time they had met 
since the days of her sorrowful captivity in the old 
chateau. 

Can you ever forgive me for my share in that 


382 ^OlV THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


cruel silence ? ” he asked. “ You do not know what I 
suffered, seeing your white face day after day, without 
being able to speak. M. Renau had bound me by my 
word of honor before he would permit me to approach 
you, and when I refused to connive any longer at the 
deception, he dismissed me from the chateau. Yet, 
if there had been less of the fear of man before my 
eyes ” 

Say no more,” interrupted the young wife, with a 
tear-dashed smile. “ I have had too much myself for 
which to ask forgiveness to reproach any one — even if 
your kindness to Henri at Aigues-Mortes had not more 
than atoned for everything.” 

She led the invalid to his chair, and Henri beckoned 
Louis to a seat at his side. 

“What business brings you across the Channel this 
time of year?” he asked. 

Seriously the visitor met the kind, keen glance. 

“ The same that brought you, my cousin.” 

“ The truth ? ” 

“ Nothing less.” 

“ Then God be praised. I began to hope, when we 
parted, that the light was dawning on you, but so long 
a time has passed that I had nearly lost heart.” 

“ It is not easy to pull against the tide,” answered 
Louis Bertrand sadly. 

“ But it is harder to keep out sunshine.” 

“ It is indeed, my sweet kinswoman. And your hus- 
band h^d shown me for the first time in my life what 
true religion was. I could not forget your earnest 
words, Henri — far less the courage and patience, which 
preached to me more eloquently than they, and made 
me ashamed of my own empty profession. But it was 
left for another to break the bonds that still bound me 
to my Church.” 


WINKLE STREET SOUTHAMPTON. 383 

“ And that other ” 

“Was Fulcrand Rey, the Huguenot pastor and mar- 
tyr. He was at Anduze the summer after you left, 
preaching the Word in secret to all who would come 
to hear, when I stumbled unexpectedly upon one of 
his services. You know his burning eloquence ; the 
truth struck home to my heart. While I was still 
struggling with conviction, the next day, I heard that 
he was taken — betrayed by one of his own people, 
a man whom he had greatly benefited, and in whom 
he fully trusted. I followed him to Nismes, then to 
Beaucaire, where he met his trial. I was present in 
that judgment-hall, beside that rack at the foot of those 
gallows-stairs. I heard him tell M. Baville, when the 
bloodthirsty Intendant stopped to plead with him 
from the judgment-seat, that the only life he asked 
was the life eternal. I heard him protest to his perse- 
cutors — when they had in vain endeavored to extort 
from him by torture the names of those who had been 
present at his services — that they had suffered far 
more than he, that he had scarcely felt any pain at 
all. I saw him rejoice at the foot of the scaffold, as 
one who mounted a ladder, the top of which reached 
even unto heaven. The work his lips had begun, his 
death sealed. The conviction had long been forcing 
itself upon me, that there was more of the spirit of 
Christ in the courage and gentleness of the religion- 
naires than in the ferocity of their persecutors. I could 
no longer blind my soul to the truth, that, if I would 
tread in the footprints of the meek and loving Prince 
of Peace, it could not be in the pale of my own 
Church.” 

“That was last July,” said Henri gently, when the 
speaker paused. 

“Yes ; it has been a long struggle. My heart was 


3^4 ^OlV THEY KEPT THE FAITH, 

too cowardly at first to face the thought of being 
branded as a traitor by my old Church, and the ties 
that bound me to land and kindred, the prospects of 
worldly advantage and preferment, which others had 
counted loss for Christ, held me with adamantine 
bonds. But, thank God ! ‘ to them that have no 
might, He increases strength.’ The fight is over at 
last, and I am here — free ! ” 

“To learn, as we have done, that those who forsake 
all and follow Him, do not miss their reward even in 
this life ! ” added a deep, moved voice from the shadow 
of the doorway, and the exile looked up to meet the 
moistened gaze of Rene Chevalier and his wife, who 
had entered unnoticed during the recital. “ Jean 
brought us word, and we could not wait a summons 
to come and welcome you,” said the physician, when 
the first joyful greetings were over. “ My mother is 
watching with Pepin and his wife by the bed of a sick 
child, but she will be with us this evening. Mon- 
sieur, you must permit us to share with Henri and his 
wife the pleasure of entertaining you. Marguerite 
can plead the tie of blood as well as Eglantine, but 
methinks we have even a stronger claim upon you. 
My mother has always believed that it was to you we 
owed the secret warning, three years ago, which gave 
us opportunity to escape to the hills. Ah ! ” as the 
sensitive color surged to the other’s face, “ then she 
was not mistaken.” 

“ Spare me thanks ! ” interposed Louis Bertrand 
hurriedly. “You have generous memories, that re- 
call only my few good impulses. It must indeed have 
been a callous heart that would not have done what 
it could to save Agnes Chevalier.” 

The soft eyes of Marguerite Chevalier filled with 
tears at the mention of the name. Her husband 


WINKLE STREET, SOUTHAMPTON. 3S5 

looked at her tenderly, and then laid his hand upon 
her shoulder. 

“ Can we regret anything for her, who has seen 
Christ face to face ? ” he asked in a low voice. “ Can 
we ask anything more for our little daughter, Mar- 
guerite, than that she should follow her namesake, as 
she followed Christ ? ” 

“Nay, you know well I do ask nothing better for her,” 
she responded quickly, and Rene turned back to Louis. 

“ Do you bring us any tidings of Beaumont and our 
brethren there ? Does the persecution still rage as 
fiercely as ever ? ” 

“ I hear there has been a comparative respite since 
M. Renau’s arrest and summons to Paris. What ! ” 
as Henri uttered a sharp exclamation, “ you had not 
heard of that monsieur ? Your kinsman and my pa- 
tron, as you may remember, was fond of games of 
chance. He undertook to cross Minister Louvois in 
one of his schemes —secretly, of course, — but the plot 
miscarried and came to the minister’s ears. M. Renau 
is at present a prisoner in the Bastile, and it is not 
likely that the power he has offended will be in any 
haste to release him. He will have ample opportu- 
nity, my fair kinswoman, to taste the bitterness of the 
portion he meted out to you and yours.” 

“ But I would not add a finger’s weight to his fet- 
ters, if I could,” said Eglantine La Roche sadly. 

“ Nay, let us only pity the downfall which is so ut- 
terly devoid of comfort,” added her husband gravely. 
“ Perhaps in his humiliation and loneliness, repent- 
ance and better thoughts may come to him. If so, 
may God forgive him as freely as I do. I am glad, 
however, to hear that our persecuted brethren have 
some rest. Now, Louis, tell us of your plans. Do 
you propose to enter the Church her^ ? ” 


386 HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH. 


“ Nay, monsieur ; henceforth I am a learner, not a 
teacher. I must, of course, seek some way of earning 
a livelihood, but I have scarcely thought of that yet.” 

“ Then cast in your lot with us,” pleaded Eglantine, 
reading the thought in her husband’s eyes. “ With 
the first of May, Louis, we will have set sail from 
England, and be on our way across the sea, to a home 
in the new world. The lords proprietors offer great 
inducements to emigrants, and the climate of the Car- 
olinas, Rene says, is like that of our own Languedoc, 
and will be far better for Henri than these bleak Eng- 
lish winters.” 

“ And there are portents of a storm here which I 
would be glad to avoid,” added her husband gravely. 
“ The religious liberties of the people are well de- 
fended by their laws, but we ’:now, by sad experience, 
how little edicts can withstand a tyrant’s will. The 
King of England is devoted to the Romish Church, 
and has set his heart upon restoring it in his realm. 
The highest offices in the kingdom have been given to 
men notoriously corrupt, who will 'sell the rights of 
their countrymen without scruple. Already the law, 
prohibiting Papists from holding office, has been re- 
pealed ; the Jesuits have been invited back to Lon- 
don, and Romish priests placed in some of the highest 
benefices of the Church of England — in defiance of the 
remonstrances of the people. It is true. King James 
continues to offer an asylum to our persecuted breth- 
ren, and shows much kindness to the dissenters ; but 
we cannot be deceived. When he has crushed the 
State Church it will be easy for him to deal with us.” 

^‘Methinks he would do well to pause and consider,” 
answered Louis Bertrand. “ Has he forgotten that he 
trifles v/ith a people who brought his father to the 
block for a less infringement of their liberties?” 


WINKLE STREET, SOUTHAMPTON 387 

“It would seem so. ‘Whom the gods would de- 
stroy, they first make mad,’ and King James is deaf, 
we hear, even to the remonstrances of Catholic ad- 
visers against the madness of his course. Already 
there is a strong opposition to the Government, and 
the various sects are forgetting their petty discords, 
and uniting against the common enemy.” 

“ The English people will not surrender their liber- 
ties without a struggle,” added Rene ; “but who can 
tell through what seas of civil war the right may have 
to fight its way. I, for one, will be glad to place my 
loved ones in a place of safety before the storm breaks, 
but even had these events not occurred, M. Bertrand, 
the thought of founding another Languedoc on the 
shores of the new world, and of laying the corner- 
stone of a purer and more enlightened state for those 
who shall come after us, has been a dream of mine 
ever since I left my own land. Only M. Laval’s ten- 
der claim upon us has kept us here so long, and now 
that his gray head has been laid to rest, there is noth- 
ing to detain us.” 

Louis looked at Eglantine. 

“ I have been in Picardy for the last six months ; I 
had not heard of your grandfather’s death,” he said. 

‘ He passed away the last night of the old year,” 
she answered, a tender moisture in her eyes. “ He 
had been failing for a year. We saw a great change 
in him when he came over first, at the time of Rene’s 
and Marguerite’s marriage, and last autumn, when he 
made us another visit, he had a fall from a coach, 
which confined him to his chamber for many weeks. 
His attachment for Marguerite had been touching 
from the first ; her influence over him now became 
wonderful.” Eglantine smiled across the hearth into 
her sister’s soft-shining eyes. “ It was just as aunt 


388 


HOW THEY KEPT THE FAITH 


Monique had hoped from the first that it would be : 
he was never happy when she was out of his sight ; he 
would let her read and sing to him by the hour, and 
loved to hear her talk of Agnes. Even his old dislike 
to Rene vanished, and he clung to him like a child, 
and when he was told of the birth of our little son on 
Christmas day, he sent a special request by aunt 
Monique, that the little one should bear the name of 
the best man he had ever known — Godfrey Chevalier. 
There was no formal change of faith, but when they 
found him, New-Year’s morning, asleep, to wake on 
earth no more. Marguerite’s Bible lay open on the 
table beside him, and there was a look of peace on the 
old face, which left no doubt in our hearts that he was 
satisfied at last.” 

“ After all, it matters little in what church our names 
are enrolled, if they are written in the Lamb’s Book 
of Life,” said Rene. 

“ That is what the old priest on the Normandy coast 
told my sister last summer, when her baby died with- 
out baptism,” Lr>uis Bertrand answered. “ Natalie 
was nearly crazed with grief, but he bade her have 
more confidence in the mercy of her Heavenly Father, 
and be comforted. There might be many, unknown 
to the Church, who would be owned of Him. And then 
he told her of the great sorrow there had been in his 
own life — of the young nun who had been to him like 
a daughter in Christ, and had broken his heart by 
abandoning her vows and embracing heresy. He 
would have brought her back, at first, at any cost, he 
said, believing her to be in danger of eternal death, 
but she had escaped beyond his reach, and as time had 
passed, he had come to think of her with less bitter, 
ness. The more he read in the Gospels, the more he 
was becoming convinced that we were to be judged— 


WINKLE STREET, SOUTHAMPTON, 389 

not by our attitude to the Church, but to the Master 
Himself. From what he knew of his former pupil, 
he could not doubt that she had been earnestly seek- 
ing God. He would not say she had not found Him. 
Christ might have other sheep, not of this fold. When 
she went back to Paris, Natalie heard that he was 
considered too liberal by his order, and was looked 
upon with suspicion by the Sorbonne, because he dis- 
couraged persecution. But she says no one ever 
comforted her as he did, and that he was idolized by 
the rough fisher-folk among which he labored. She 
was looking forward to meeting him again this sum- 
mer, when the news reached her, after the great gale 
last winter, that he had lost his life in the endeavor 
to take some drowning men off a wreck. They found 
his body on the beach the next day, and on his breast 
a sealed packet, directed to my sister’s care. It con- 
tained only this.” Louis Bertrand drew a slip of paper 
from his pocket and put it in Marguerite’s hand. 

“The priest’s name was Pere Ambrose. Natalie 
thought you would like to keep it,” he said reverently. 

Marguerite unfolded the paper, and then, with a 
great light shining through the tender mist in her 
eyes, held it up for Rene to read. 

“ Now we see through a glass darkly : but then face to 
face. Noiv I know in pai't^ but then shall I know, even m 
also I am knownl^ 


THE END, 



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